03 October 2006

Opus #5

This metaphor has been rattling around in my mind for over a decade now. The Lord has only recently given me the final puzzle pieces to put it into words.

It describes both ways I’ve been treated by various people and, unfortunately, ways I’ve treated others. I confess that I’m most often the second woman, especially to my children. By God’s grace, I’m slowly becoming more like the third.

Deep in a pit, upon my back,
My ankle twisted, broke.
I’m bruised; my head has had a crack.
I cry out, weep, and choke.

A stone upon my broken limb,
I cannot stand; I sprawl.
I fear my rescue hope is slim,
I’m helpless as a doll.

Above appears a simple grin
That sees no need to fret,
Ignores the hole, deep gloom within,
“Don’t mope or be upset!”

More platitudes she calls to me,
“Now, where’s your cheerful mood?
The weather’s fine as it can be,
So don’t be so subdued.”

She skips away. She never saw
How dangerous my plight.
Too optimistic was her flaw,
Too rosy was her sight.

A scowl appears atop the hole,
She knits her brow, so grim.
Self-righteous chiding is her goal.
“You! Climb up to this rim.”

“Come pull yourself up here with me,
You prat, you’re strong enough!
If you’d more faith, you would be free.
You’re made of worthless fluff!”

She stomps away, her shoulders shrugs,
Not charity, but shame.
She sees no use in tender hugs,
Believes they can’t reclaim.

A sister dear shows me her face.
Her eyes set me at peace.
Her gentle hope like an embrace,
My dread and fear decrease.

To reach my side she scrambles down,
Ignores the nasty slime.
Her touch as soft as eiderdown,
She counts not cost nor time.

My tears are dried, my wounds are bound,
She rolls away the stone.
Her joy and laughter, such sweet sound,
Now I walk not alone.

A greater Friend descended here
Into our blackened pit,
Assumed our woe and took our fear,
For God, He made us fit.

He wiped our tears and bound our hurt,
He paid off all our debt,
Did not despise the mire and dirt,
But washed away our sweat.

Into the tomb he went, unspared,
Then rolled away the stone.
Our beastly sin and grief he shared,
So we’d walk not alone.


© Lynne Spear, 2006

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