“Wounds”

by Michaela Bylsma 11/20/09

Beautiful hands, pierced with heartache

And drenched in brokenness.

He stands in silence,

Meditating on those hands.

Scarred and bloody, they reveal the passion

That fills them with healing.

He is searching for healing.

An antidote for his heartache.

A fire to be built under the passion

That remains in him through his brokenness.

He pleads with clasped hands,

But the only answer to his cries is silence.

A laugh pierces the silence

As a voice screams out against all healing.

He buries his head in his hands,

As the darkness throws all his heartache

In his face, longing to replace his brokenness

With bitterness and its own evil passion.

His flesh yearns to let go of his holy passion.

But his spirit urges him to savor the silence

And relish the brokenness.

To lift up his eyes unto the Center of all healing,

To endure the heartache,

And with thankful praise, raise his hands.

He looks again on those wounded hands,

Then reaches out with his own to grab hold of God’s passion.

It tells him that through his heartache

And the love to be found in the silence

He will find healing.

That it will come through his brokenness.

Oh, this overwhelming brokenness!

Yet not as broken as those hands,

Those wounds that bring him healing.

Showing the purest passion,

They gesture quietly in the silence

For him to embrace this heartache.

His healing will flow from those hands.

Bringing peace to the silence and fire to his passion,

They will mold his brokenness into something beautiful, redeeming his heartache.