Hopeless

I wrote this poem in one of my darkest moments. Gut-wrenching though it was, God used it to bring me to the book of Job, chapters 38-42. Despite my black heart, the confusion of my circumstances, and the emotional brink on which I was teetering, God showed me that He is God. My self-righteousness needed to be laid down, overwhelmed by His sovereign wisdom and power. 


No, it didn't necessarily change the circumstances or make the pain completely go away. Far from it. But this lament, which was accepted by God, provided a door for Him to reach inside my heart and begin straightening what was (and is) crooked. Do I have the answers? No, just as Job did not have the answers. However, instead of asking "why is life so difficult?", will I have the faith to ask "Who provides strength for the trials of life?"

Hopeless

Life itself seems hopeless,

happiness a distant dream.

Tell me why I'm here?

Evil seems to overtake any good.

Emotions run high,

and then they run low.

Cutting seems ok,

At least then I could feel again.

The pain is a dull ache,

the tears a wishful past.

My eyes are weary,

yet sleep and rest are my enemy.

My prayers pass my lips,

yet seem to bounce back,

resounding in an empty room,

am I sinning or too far to be saved?

Am I deep in self-pity,

refusing to call my friends?

Has God left me,

repulsed at my black heart?

Confusion overwhelmes me,

I feel like I will fall apart.

I crave the darkness,

to feel the weight of quiet on my ears.

God, help me,

rescue me from myself.

I am lost and hurt,

frozen and unable to move.

Only Ashes Remain

I bought a book last spring that chronicled the stories of the Roma (Gypsies) of Europe, a nomadic people that has been torn down, demoralized, and stereotyped for centuries. Many of them rightly earn the reputation of being irresponsible and untrustworthy due to perpetual thievery and lies, yet I would make the argument that those who ostracize and persecute them are in part, responsible for their actions. During the second World War, the Roma were highly targeted by the Nazi's for death and concentration camps, along with Jews and other minority people groups. The following poem written by a Croation Gypsy is a dark, yet needed reminder of the pain that can be suffered by the weak and forgotten - pain inflicted by evil men who have rejected their Creator.

Only Ashes Remain by Bairam Haliti

They come from far-flung places - 

men, women, children,

hungry, dry, unshod -

They are the Roma,

dressed in rags,

walking through mud.

They are drawn by

promises of a land

they can call their own,

houses, fields, firesides:

false Ustashi words.

They are a people of sorrow.

Only a chamber of gas

awaits them.

Their infants are screaming,

all sleep forsaken.

Their land is a mound

of charred limbs.

Where once there were

dreams,

white horses,

distant plains,

only ashes remain.

The innocent child's smile

has evaporated into sky.

Refined

As my heart was rung of its tears,

And my knees ached from hitting the floor,

I cried aloud,

“Why Lord? Why so hard?”

But You lifted my face to Yours,

And placing Your hand on my heart,

Softly whispered,

“My child! You are silver being refined.

“Just as the refiner of metals

Searches for his reflection in the crucible,

I must search for My Likeness

In the pools of your heart.

“Refining is not easy

For you or for Me.

Blood poured from My brow

For a glimpse of Me in you.

“And while you can only see

The tangled threads of life,

Oh, what a glorious,

Beautiful tapestry is being woven!

“Do not lose heart, my child!

I will never leave you nor forsake you,

Nor will I heat the fire

Hotter than you can bear.”