The Scraps I Lay Before the High Throne

I do not come with hymns, nor robes of white, but bearing burdens wrestled through the night.

My offering is the wreckage of my mood, The bitter, unpoetic solitude.

These are my Cries: the throat-stuck, soundless wail, the sudden, burning urge that makes me fail to hold composure when the simple thing snaps shut the tired hope the morning brings.

A primal, choking need to be set free, spilled out in anguish, God, for only Thee.

These are my Stresses: thin and sharp and deep, the anxious vigil I am sworn to keep.

The calculation of the lack and debt, the unspoken rules I endlessly resent.

The tension of the shared, encroaching walls, the fear of every time the structure falls.

The battle to defend what should be ours, while watching others pluck the freshest flowers.

And these, my Sadnesses: the quiet ache, the promises I feel are bound to break.

The lonely realization of the cost, the vital space for my own spirit lost.

A sorrow for the smallest, who must sense the fragile nature of our permanence.

The longing for a haven, whole and true, a silent plea, delivered straight to You.

Not faith perfected, but the bitter sum of all the ways my strength has overcome the simple daily grace I should command.

I lay these broken scraps within Your hand.