You have crafted us in such fragile bodies, Lord.
And this time of year, which brings new life,
instead brings us slush and mud,
illness after illness,
trouble after trouble.
We are worn low as we come to You,
seeking rest and healing,
fresh newness and bright blossoms.
But some days
it feels like You have turned away,
that You are unconcerned
by our brokenness and fatigue.
I am left to wonder,
where are Your healing hands, Your promised rest?
This yoke feels awkward and chaffing, I am heavy-burdened,
unable to lift my eyes from the mud I stand in.
Spring blossoms are promised by the scent on the wind,
but I am too weary to lift my head,
struggling to trust Your promises of wholeness,
of hopes fulfilled.
What good are these longings
if they are disregarded,
trampled in the mud of a melting winter
without hope of spring?
Are You here in this?
Even if You won’t change anything,
will You stand in this mud with me?
I sink to my knees,
my vision closing in to this small patch of soggy earth.
It is in this despair
that I see Your blood,
mingling with my mud and tears,
And I remember Your siren song of redemption
I might not have the strength
to see blossoms and new green around me,
but You will kneel in this mud beside me,
Your tears mingling with my own.