Dashed upon the rocks.

Battered, beaten down.

By folly.

Back turned.

Face downward.

Won’t even look.

Yet, you beckon me. The strings pulling.

Did you turn your face away when I turned mine?

Or has the bright countenance always been toward;

Just would not look?

Ever present one–always pardoning–forgiveness on your breath.

Grace appears like dew, reminding us to turn back daily.

Despondent soul, stubborn like an ass–wants its own for its own sake.

But you call us to more.

You tell us we are more than what we think we are. Tells us who we are.

We are Yours, not our own.

How will you gather and mend all these broken pieces? This is a mystery. But a beautiful one because redemption is quixotic, yet you give what is not deserved.


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