It is true that you constantly use and abuse.
It is true that your words to me are sometimes 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 ‘your will’.
It is also true that many a time,
I have considered leaving you to flounder and drown
It is true that I have agonized over decisions to concede,
And 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 seemingly blatant stupidity.
Could it be because of the rivers of compassion?
And love that still flow from the heart of one that though hurt,
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,
To mend the broken pieces left behind?
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”?
The one who has opened my heart
To see the impossible as possible, the unseen.
Opened my heart
To love the unlovably unlovely.
Through cries loosed from my tongue ~
An outpouring of pleading for grace?
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, and I say I do.
The power that propels me, that urges me on,
Despite the inner jeers and taunts, the spittle, the painful thrusts.
Graced to walk, as he would have walked,
Head unbowed by grief,
With Hands lifted high saying:
“Father forgive, for they know not what they do”.
© AdePero Mettabel, 04/19/13.