Where My Help Comes From

There will not

come a day

that I will

not proclaim

that my help

comes from

the Lord—

and not myself—

for I fell

on my own

and could not

stand back

up alone.

If I could,

there would be

no desire

to go any

higher.

The darkness

consumed it all,

and the void left

no reason

to be tall.

It would take me

up there too.

Down here,

at least my energy

is saved for

crying.

My resources are

dying, and

it’s coming

to an end.

Yet He said,

“He lives.”

But He had to

prove His wounds.

My fingers touched.

My eyes saw.

The darkness hadn’t

been there at all.

I had become the dark,

for it is all that

dwelled in my heart.

The lamp had been kindled,

the fire put out.

Looking for light,

I got closer to

the flame—

It looked

like doubt

and danced

like pain.

Oh, to be

taken to the edge

and brought back,

to see the truth

and let go of

it all.

This is the valve

that relieves the ache.

The mind still will

contemplate,

but the heart knows a lie

when it hears it—

unless the ego defends it,

in an attempt to disguise

and redirect

from what hasn’t been

acknowledged yet—

that there is a Creator

and fate,

which we don’t make

ourselves.

Left to our own devices,

our pleasure becomes a hell—

one we can’t escape—

so we hide in our shells,

simply buy what they sell,

pretend all is well.

If we don’t have the One

who is greater,

there’s nothing more

we hate, or

want to run away from.

We desire the light,

but it’s hot in the sun,

so we go to where

we think we can have fun,

never knowing the harm

we’ve done—

abandoning the person

we were meant to be,

just to be something

other people want to see—

who don’t even have

our best intentions

in mind.

And if we realize,

we accuse them

of a crime,

ignoring our own—

turning our backs,

redesigning our vision

to what looks better,

but ends up

feeling worse,

blaming anyone

but ourselves

for the hurt.

The devil lies

and looks pretty—

but it’d be such a pity

if you believe

the petty things

he spins.

The heart that hurts

swings quickly.

The one that’s held

heals swiftly—

and mine

is held by You,

where my help

comes from too.

Read next: Before the Ledge

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