Lately, words are difficult to come by, especially poetry. So here is a bit of my thoughts, put in poetic form. These hands. They are worn, broken, beaten from carrying the wages of a days labor wrought out of my hopes and dreams rather than your plans. These hands, they carry the tears from years of a thousand wimpers and wails. They crawl through thistles and thorns, bristles and briars, bloodied from the pressure applied to my bleeding heart.
These hands beat incessantly upon my chest drowning out the pain I feel deep in my soul like a part of me has been severed because I'm waiting.
Yes, these hands are waiting for you to give me what I'm asking for. These hands have begged and pleaded, thumbs and forefingers pressed to my chest, palms together, difficult breaths;
Lord I've waited for you.
I've planted the seeds, tilled the soil, and watered and watered again.
Lord where are you?
Because you're supposed to come through, because Lord you're supposed to rescue, because Lord you're supposed to renew
But I think I've trusted these hands more than I've trusted you.
But wait. Don't give up on me just yet. I can bend my knees and bow my head. I can give you reverent Amens and Hallelujahs.
I can dance for you, sing for you, even shout for you. I will give for you, love for you, or do anything for you!
Oh please Lord. Are you silent now too?
But in that silence, comes a whisper, A rugged tale for the fervent listener And in the midst of slight and sorrow Gone are my wishes for tomorrow And softly speaks with care so tender My dear, all I desire is your surrnder.
So I gave up the aches placed upon my hands, and handmade dreams give way to infinite Kings and kingdoms.
And my soul finds rest in the beauty of your quiet. On the altar of my heart is the hardened masses, of my will masterfully masked as yours. With hands emptied toward heaven,
Yet, I will praise you. Yet, I will praise you.