Days begin, bright and clean,
Little is known, most just shown.
We don't remember, maybe none can,
When we first realize something is wrong.
But God . . .
A confine from which memory cannot serve.
But all of us know it now, though some deny,
The crack, the void, the dark, the wound,
The thorn in the flesh, the plank in the eye.
But God . . .
Its presence grows, its power expands,
Splitting foundations of rock to sand.
Time assists in its creeping way,
The shadowy hand on our loss of days.
But God . . .
We mourn too, for our earlier selves,
All the while losing cheer to the truth.
Mirth dies on its edge, bleeding a helpless dirge,
A blight on light, hope, and love.
But God . . .
The core is black, the pit is deep,
Haunting even children in sleep.
What was beautiful takes a tarnish,
As all things human bear its stamp.
But God . . .
A cursed people, a fallen race,
From Adam's apple to dust in a grave,
Pinned to the ground, and stapled down,
Held back, restrained, kept in pain.
But God . . .
The trap is shut, the pincers close,
The prey fights in futile struggle.
But God.
Copyright Chris Brady 2009
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