What have I, My Lord,
But my beating heart,
My pulsing blood,
My seemingly useless toil,
The tears and sweat,
That mark my life?

Yet, I persevere,
I fight,
I cry,
I shout through the Night.
Though in the tumult,
And the rancor of holocaust,
My screams scarcely rise above a whisper.

I make of my heart a sanctuary,
A resting place for my God.
I long to comfort You,
For my wounds pierce Your Heart,
And tear Your Most Innocent Flesh.

It is You Who are rejected
In the womb of the world,
Women crying,
“Get out you untimely thing.”
Men forsaking love once declared.

Come here to me.
I will cry with You.
I will tend Your wounds,
Hold Your Hallowed Hand.

Each morn anew
I will embrace my lot.
My thoughts will meet ridicule,
But the stripes,
Fall anew on You.

Soldiers of the heart
Swell Your growing ranks,
As mere men take arms
Against Legion.
Each a knight born of a Revelation,
Your Love,
Your Faithfulness,
Your Victory.

© 2016 Joann Nelander