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Those dreams — they died And in their place A hollow heart That’s lost all faith That hope — it’s gone Without a trace Deathly shadows Haunting its grave No mercy rule To stop the ache These dry bones scream “There’s no more grace” Resurrection — Running to save Wish I believed Dead can be raised
OH yes, dead can be raised and have been and will be. Death is but a prelude to better life. Lilies spring from bulbs and butterflies from chrysalides. Hope springs eternal, Rebekah. Please believe it. It’s true.
I lov eyou.
Lynn
It’s so hard to believe when the waiting seems eternal. Love you too!
This poem reminds me of Psalm 88, a psalm in which lament never turns toward hope (most make this turn). It ends simply with “darkness is my closest friend.” Somehow the expression of despair, faithlessness, hopelessness has power; such expressions made it into the song/prayer book of Israel. Too often we attempt to provide nice, neat, tidy answers to the ugly, messy, unkempt reality of life. Perhaps the most faithful thing is simply to articulate reality as we experience it. In that sense, thank you for your faithful voice. Shalom, my sister.
I love how you can find the light in my darkness. Thanks for pointing it out.