Hasten I November 10, 2009
The little I suffer now seems, at times, much.
But what agony do I have that can compare
to the most perfect woman cradling, like a newborn babe,
the corpse of her son, the son of God?
How little my sorrows, how trifling my agony.
I say I am shattered to the core.
Bent to the breaking point.
Stripped bare.
But am I?
No one has cast lots for my garments.
No one has nailed me to a cross.
I have not even shed blood.
What sorrow have I?
None.
But that does nothing to reduce the pain.
I stand appalled at my weakness.
I am nothing.
Human dust alive.
Alive; not by my own will, not by my hand.
I did not make myself, did not breathe life.
Who am I then?
A man, striving for justice.
Turning the other cheek,
welcoming the suffering I receive.
I am unpracticed at this task.
Grudgingly does my will conform.
The struggle is not so much against the sorrows,
but against myself, who wants only comfort and ease.
Everything happens for a reason.
My life, a fleeting existence.
Transient like a blade of grass.
Time flowing out of my hands, never to return.
By what right do I seek happiness?
How dare I say that I deserve anything?
Is that not arrogance?
Or is it a sign?
That ever will my heart be restless
until it finds its rest in You.
Why then does my will flail in agony?
Twist and strain under such trifling sorrow?
I am like a tree, bending in a strong wind.
I think I am about to break,
yet something tells me I can bend much further still,
that I am hardly bereft of my cloak, let alone stripped bare.
I quail in terror.
I do not wish to suffer.
Not even such trifling sorrows.
For if these are trifling, how then could I endure more?
I begin to understand,
and understanding, marvel.
How could your Mother
bear to have her heart pierced?
With a sword, no less.
With a sword, her heart pierced.
With a sword, her son dead.
With a sword, her all in her arms.
I do not wish to suffer.
Nor do I seek it out.
Yet if it comes, I must bow my head.
And humbly, accept.
Conforming my will
to your desire.
For what profit have I
from rebellion when I cannot change?
I am a fallen man,
bent and broken,
shattered by sin;
I do not recognize who I am meant to be.
You do.
You know why you made me.
You know my Purpose.
You know when, and how, and where.
You know.
I do not.
You know.
I do not.
I am grateful for
the little I suffer.
Not out of fear,
Not from trepidation.
But I know that You know.
You know my Purpose.
And in so knowing,
You know what I need
for You to shape me
into the man
I am meant to be,
so as to accomplish my Purpose.
You know.
I do not.
You know.
I do not.
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