When you do all you know to do,
and when all the other fuzzy parts are Spirit crafted,
and you know it,
you see it,
and you can’t and don’t take the credit,
then you have this big confidence that all will be well,
but it isn’t.
At least, it doesn’t seem so.
***
When you prune as much as you can of dead flesh,
the stuff that clings and corrupts,
and you submit it,
you release it,
and you won’t and don’t take the stink back,
and you have this silent hope that this was the last battle,
but then it isn’t!
At least, it doesn’t seem so.
***
And you sigh,
unclench
teeth and hands.
And you pray,
the wet, groaning kind of prayers,
the jumbled words kind,
and you find yourself once again bearing the wood.
***
The weighted wood supposedly is yours to carry,
when you thought doing and believing was enough.
And it’s too hard,
and it’s too splintered bloody,
and you can’t and don’t pretend that you are able–
that you are the walk-on-water kind of gal–
and you aren’t!
At least, it seems so.
***
But He is still there.
He picks you up—you and your cross.
You finger the torn hands,
and from somewhere within, unkempt but real, praise creeps out.
At least, it seems so.
)
