For Those of Us Left Stuttering

There are times when what you want to say has already been said. This seems like one of those times to insert lyrics.

In this broken place where I was born

It seems there is no peace,

And the very soil that we walk upon

Is filled with tears that never cease,

And you can trace the scars of hopelessness

Like sweat upon the backs

Of all the outcast downtrodden,

Water slipped through cracks

Hold on,

Hold tight

 

And I am overwhelmed with grief,

to see such suffering,

For those who lack the voice to speak

For those of us left stuttering

 

May this not prevail,

Dear Lord, your love will never fail

And these frail hands,

They tremble as they pen perhaps their last

And these weak words,

Can never say what cannot be surpassed

 

When the concrete of the world

Becomes too cumbersome to lift,

And the cataracts of fear and doubt

Cloak truth beyond what we can sift

And darkness, darkness bleeds its way,

When crippling anguish clouds our sight,

The ghosts of dusk have bared their teeth,

Set their claws to bring the night

 

Hold on,

Hold tight

 

Darkness can't perceive the light,

though lightlessness has chilled us numb,

And though its wings may cloud the skies,

The dark shall never overcome

Light of the world,

Your love, has never failed

And these frail hands,

They tremble as they pen perhaps their last

And these weak words,

Can never say what cannot be surpassed

I need your love,

And most of all I want to feel your peace,

I need your love,

Let everything that you are not decrease,

(Your love,

Your mercy,

Your light unending.

Your hope,

Your peace,

Your strength my heart is mending.)

--Brave Saint Saturn's "These Frail Hands"

There are times when we are called to grieve. Invited to weep. Allowed to feel the weight of brokenness. And perhaps with that grieving protest the chasm between what should have been and what is. This seems like one of those times.

Maybe it's the countless victims ravaged by the Tsunami in Japan that I can never comprehend. Maybe it's the gunfire and war in Libya that I don't really understand. Maybe it's the three clients we've seen in the last two months who have tested HIV positive. Maybe it's the funeral of a friend and the loss of a great man. Maybe it's the deferred hope of healing.

Sometimes we are called to grieve. And in grieving learn to hope again.

With an ear turned toward the suffering of this world and with all of us left stuttering without words (although I guess I've been able to come up with quite a few) I wonder if hope is reserved for those foolish enough to believe that though the dark may come the sun also rises. I want to be among the foolish.