stir.

What to do with calloused heart? When I
glance down at my chest to the pit that
has been carved, a center that drowns
hate and hurt in raging swirl
How am I to love while my fists clench the blood
spilt by the words of one with whom my heart had so closely
beat with, lungs with whom I so closely breathe with?
Do my eyes tell you stories? Do you see the wounds your
hands have created? We all say we are human,
finitely fragile and mortally weak, but
from what I have seen there is an
infinite power—we do not know the sorrow that
our hands can inflict

By God, I want to hurt you back! But
grace restrains my hands to be, and
instead of darkness blurring, He
washed my vision with the
fluids of His heart—compassion
and while my heart beats hurt, my
heart beats sorrow back for you

I read that Paul said love
compels him. Well I misread and I thought that
love was constraining, but
the Lord has shown me that this is
all under the frame of Christ-like living because I
am controlled by Love, each
action carefully checked and packaged and sent into
human air and earth and heart. And I
have heard it said that love is patient, love
is kind. Love, though it sees itself hurting, bleeding,
never stops to nurse its wound, never
kneels to its own vengeance, but
is only concerned with giving and never with
taking, always concerned with
healing and never with hating. Love seeks not
its own, its comfort, its convenience, but in the pile of
broken human bones it desires, it stirs that life might LIVE and
you might too. My friend, forgive me, my ribs cage a soul
shipwrecked to the shore of human despondency, but
I pray for you, I think about you, I grieve for you, that our
weary broken eyes may be given heaven’s vision, and
though imperfect we may be, its grace that
permits a friendship to be. Let it breathe, let it breathe. And friend,
We’ll be ok.

photo