The Girl Who Wept

Old tormentor returns;
you who were memory
now assaults my peace and joy.
You claw my deepest flesh, 
tear my soul into foetal distress.
assail me with cruel thought and doubt,
rage and accusing shouts.

Where is my peace?
Left abandoned to face my wound,
my soul ploughed with regret,
sown in doubt and manured with shame.
What bitter crop will I yield?
Shame rises - I fret.
Alone I sit in blistered wound.

O who sees me weep so deep within?

My friends come,
gather around to pray,
seek to decode my thoughts,
guide me on my way.
O I love these souls, 
but what do they ask of me?
They say, “Yield and give this wound to Christ.”

Shame binds me from His love,
and I flay this festering wound -
my soul’s regret.
Do they not know my eyes are dimmed,
what shall release me from your sight?
Friends, you pray on.
God sees my hidden face.

Friends, what avatar do you see?
Does it please?
Do I need my friends here now?
O pray on - but in silent tongue,
usher peace into my eyes.
Pray, decode my shifting thoughts,
yet, don’t take my wound away too soon.

Between my breaths shame does rage,
my wound weeps,
my soul bleeds,
yet this pain is dear to me.
O sweet memories - 
but I was betrayed.
Friends, this privacy you shall not invade.

What, my friends,
do you want me to say?
How does this praying end?
But if this wound is closed too soon
septic seeds remain.
Dormant seeds, to erupt another day.

Friends, I cannot give you this wound,
I want a gardener for my wound,
one who takes me deep within.
My gardener will walk with me
into my wound, to weed out seeds of shame.
This gardener’s hand I seek.

A fleeting silence in spoken prayers.

I look within.
You my Lord, wait there in silence.
In grief, you weep over my wound.
Come, take my hand
touch my wound,
what can come from this
so I weep no more?
  A poetic tale from Vocation as Resistance © Craig A. Roberts 2022.
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