You Wound Me


You wound me,
with carefully honed precision
and seemingly thoughtless words
with timing, off,
and a sometimes disregard for my weaknesses.

You push me,
when I’d rather just be
held safe and fast, wrapped tight
in Your arms
and the knowledge that I have Your regard.

You challenge me,
to step out of that comfort,
demanding that I move beyond what I’ve known
that I meet You
more than halfway.

You wound me,
tearing open the scars to relish
the pain, festering, that needs to run
like blood from my body,
until I am vulnerable, until I am open, until I can’t even think to hide.

I rail back at You,
angry and hurt by turns
Why now? Why in this place, on this day,
The need to push, to demand.
I don’t want to be stronger,
I want to be held.

You wound me
and You cannot seem to decide whether
it is my audacity at being furious with You
or my moments of awe-induced shock that I dare be angry
at You, oh, at You
That pleases You more.

You wound me,
but the confines of Your love holding fast
never — not for one moment — slipping
and where, Beloved, where else, would my open wounds be as safe,
if not here, now, with You?


3 Comments Add yours

  1. Moved beyond words with this one. At the core of what it means to be safely held by a God. Who else knows when to push and when to comfort as well?

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