We walked through all the stations,
most everyone had left,
I wasn’t sure what I thought or felt,
except the aching in my chest.
I slipped into the back pew,
wanting to be alone –
searching back over my life
trying to find where I went wrong.
It must’ve been early on,
I cannot recall a peace,
I want to lie on this floor and scream and weep,
It’s not low enough just on my knees.
I don’t really want to be alone,
but scared to reach for a hand,
I hear my dad say, ‘suck it up,’
and find a way to stand.
I don’t feel in awe of the mystery,
I’m not that compelled to rejoice,
my wounds and flesh take up too much space,
and anger has swallowed my voice.
I’ve done everything that you’ve asked,
I’ve shown up and tried again,
But Your God is giving no break to the ache,
and the war is still raging within.
I must get up now, before I’m found,
sitting alone in this silence,
I think they’ll see needy, I don’t want to be,
weighed down by shame and the violence.
What troubles me most, is that if God wanted,
He could ease the ache with a blink,
yet He refuses to heal, lets more trouble come,
and stands by watching me sink.
If grace is for every man,
then why do I sit, the exception,
it must be a theory, wishful thinking at best,
I find no hope in resurrection.
For if I had hope, I would believe it could change,
and not hate my own existence,
but now from this seat, there’s no more to say,
my words only meet God’s resistance.