The secret desolation of the soul

I have a desolate soul
Sunk beneath a pool of murk and grime where no light shines
But for a glimpse of faded that pierces the darkness but then dies away
And is no more

“You are gods,” saith He, “but you shall die as men.”
And be no more

I am a “god” yet mortal
And I stand in judgment against myself
With anger and wrath, and despondency
I am…I am not

The Divine Presence laughs at me…
…or weeps
I weep, too, for me

There is a black veil that flutters
Which covers my face
My visage
Which I cannot bear to see
That flutters with each breath
And terrifies little souls

I shall not remove it
But it shall be removed for a new Adam
But, Father, let this cup pass from me
It is too much
I cannot bear it

And still the voice speaks:
“Take, drink, this is my blood.”
And so this cup shall pass from you
But, take, drink…
“This is my blood.”

It is bitterness and gall
But consumed, it is sweetness

But do I dare?
Do I dare drink from the cup that runneth over?
I am like one who scuttles below
Where there are many circles
Descending by degrees
Until, at once, a frozen place
Desolation where quietness pervades

…except for the shouting and the betrayals

I hear one cry, “Shut up!”
Oh, yes, please, shut up
Yes, be silent
I cannot bear these shouts
Shouts that pass, indeed, from my own mouth

But even there among the commotion
The Divine Presence reigns
Even there, He is found
Saying, “The one who descends also ascends.”
By grace
“By My grace.”
The dead are brought low but rise

“Today, when you hear his voice,
Do not harden your heart.”


© 2017, Mark R. Adams. All rights reserved.

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