O Lord, not wrath—don’t strike me low, Your fire burns fast, but I move slow. I cry in bones, they twist with ache, And still I wait — how long to break? No voice remains in death’s deep breath, No song can rise beneath that death. Who gives You thanks where silence feeds? What praise can bloom where no one pleads? I drown in tears, my bed a sea, My soul is cracked where light should be. O Lord, return, restore my skin— Or leave me here with all I’ve been. The night is long, my weeping grows, My eye is dimmed by countless blows. But still You hear — my voice, my plea, And hold the space where I might be. Let shame fall swift on those who harm, Let judgment come without alarm. But me — I rest in whispered breath, Alone, unheld, with none in death.
