Normally, I would be posting a week in review today and sharing all your lovely posts, but I have consistently offered you a small glimpse of transparency on this blog and so I do so again today.
I am aching. There seems to be a peculiar kind of soul in this world, a soul that at times can feel the wounds of this cosmos most acutely. Some days this is more apparent than others. My friends, it is a slow ache on the journey Home. All I could think of to do is share with you something that explains it, at least in part. I wrote this in haste last night, I commend it now to you.
Why is there this ache, O God?
Why is there this ache, O God?
Why should my soul be bruised by Thy rod?
Is there deeper purpose in these purple pains,
Is there justice and mercy and treasures gained?
While some seem to never feel the thorn,
To live their lives without season’d scorn,
Or better yet to know pain well,
but to flee so quickly from the sting of Hell.
While poorly-stitched souls are lost,
given over to tempest, decay, and frost,
to suffer much and do so long,
to know the ache of broken, cosmic bond.
While we look out from our bodied tomb,
to those who dance in Easter’s womb,
we are left like God nailed upon the tree–
so very dead,
so finally free.
Why is there this ache, O God?
Shall you answer me from the whirlwind, too?
No. Peace! You need not do.
For I know unto Whom all praise must tend,
I know too of my Redeemer’s end,
So content me, Lord, if Thou art pleased,
to hide me in the bosom of that dead Man
in Whom Death ceased.
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