Cracked and dry

The moon rises, full,

laden with promise.

I feel cracked and dry,

empty of all but dust.

You don’t promise me fullness

for my sake,

but I would bear much for You,


bowed low with unborn weight.

But You have asked me

to bear emptiness,

to lie

cracked and broken.

Some days I feel lost,

discarded in a corner,

unwanted, forgotten,

collecting dust.

And when You find me,

place Your hands on me,

I crack further,

fine chips flaking off

and joining the dust

collecting at Your feet.

Pieces of me,

cast off, unwanted.

Am I too much,

that parts of me

must be cast aside?

Or am I not enough,

unworthy and undesired?


Yet Your warm hands

cherish me,

dust me off,

revealing the true colours

hidden by years of shame.

I can’t yet tell

if my cracks

add to or detract from

the design You have made me with.

Maybe there are still

more cracks to come,

more pieces to flake off,

more colours to dust off

and bring forth.


But for now,

I will raise

my dusty and broken hands

to praise You.


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