Trying to write my story
is sometimes like cutting back flesh, recently pink and scarred
to find the plain cold truth.
I want to heal and so I wonder if this is wise. This rending,
backward into ancient despair
to find the open rot inside. It is a kind of hell.
But I go there.
I climb into that putrid place with
the fresh hope of Jesus.
Tonight, he wiped my spilling tears,
crawled around inside my wounds, and
held my thumping, aching heart
while it was tender and sore.
He took that pain. Jesus was here
inside my story, so full
of sorrow and regret.
Foul, bitter, wretched I know that
I still am. Quietly, he’s saying
let me rewrite the end.