I wrote this poem a while ago - A glimpse into the heart of a strong woman who is pressed but not crushed, persecuted not abandoned, struck down but not destroyed... Out of desolation, a phoenix will arise; Halleluyah!
It is true that you constantly use and abuse.
It is true that your words to me are with precision care
Aimed to amuse and confuse.
It is true that every time and everything I give,
You disdain and count as dung,
It is true that in your eyes, I am nothing but a well-worn avenue,
For your feet’s traverse to destination 'My will be done'.
It is also true that many a time,
I am tempted to leave
So that you flounder and drown
(As I know you will)
It is true that I have agonized over decisions to concede,
And to forgive, time and yet time again.
It is true that blood has boiled within my veins,
My hands bound, rendered impotent to allow harm,
Even so by the cords of love that still restrain.
So why is it not true for you to suppose
That I am weak and spineless?
Why is it not true for you to summarily conclude,
Upon my apparent blindness and seeming blatant stupidity.
Could it be because of the rivers of compassion?
And love that still flow from the heart of one that though hurt and marred,
Realizes that it too was so forgiven?
Could it be because of the enduring truth of faith, of hope, and of love?
Faith… That although, at this time, you're so hopelessly blind,
Someday your eyes will open and you will see the light?
Hope… That the tears (sometimes violently angry)
That I have shed because of you and many more for the things you have done,
Would someday cease, morning breaking through with the sun’s healing rays?
Love… Once stranger to me,
Bought and brought by the Sovereign one who rules over my heart and soul?
The one to whom I cannot but say-
“Not my will but yours be done”?
Could it be because He abides in me, and therefore I can abide?
Could it be because of The One who has opened my heart
To see the impossible as possible, the unseen as seen,
And He who has opened my heart
To love the unlovably unlovely?
Could it be from the infusion of strength I have received
Through birthing cries loosed from my tongue ~
An outpouring of pleading for grace?
May it be that the rivers of supplication
for that one
For whom if it had not been poured,
The end result, dastardly doom?
Yes! It is the truth that I concede,
But this, I do, by the strength that rises up within me,
With which I say I do.
The power that propels me urging me on,
Through inner jeers and taunts, congealed spittle, and painful thrusts.
The power that graces me to walk, as He would have walked,
Head unbowed by grief, Hands lifted high in submission to His will:
“Father forgive, for they know not what they do.”
© AdePero Mettabel, 04/19/13.
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