Don’t press me any harder. I am scraped low, slung out, And strung hard between bitten hours And bent, bated minutes. I haunt from room to room. People pat me on the shoulder And don’t know what to say. How long with this last? I’m not going to make it. But if you love me, save me. Stop me. Carry me. Rattle me down And meet me on the long way round. No one will remember you in the dust of death. And don’t you want my praises? Didn’t you want to glory inside me? Why did you let this ruin root itself And gnash me to bone? If I had sails, I could ride my bed On the water of my tears. All my thoughts are salted white And grief runs in me like floodwater. Why do fears fountain so full, but grace Rises slowly, wears disguises, And turns on such small hinges? God, heave to heaven and throw me over. Take my prayers to your chest. Send me peace in volleys. Fold my troubles in on themselves And leave me standing.
Psalms: 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 38, 39, 40, 43, 47, 54, 61, 63, 66, 70.
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Photo by Robert Zunikoff on Unsplash
"...but grace
Rises slowly, wears disguises,
And turns on such small hinges?"
You capture this so well. You fill in that huge empty, real space of the somewhere between the "cry for mercy and God's acceptance of the prayer." This quiet, delicate, intricate grace.