Dear refuge of my weary soul,
On Thee, when sorrows rise
On Thee, when waves of trouble roll,
My fainting hope relies
To Thee I tell each rising grief,
For Thou alone canst heal
Thy Word can bring a sweet relief,
For every pain I feel

But oh! When gloomy doubts prevail,
I fear to call Thee mine
The springs of comfort seem to fail,
And all my hopes decline
Yet gracious God, where shall I flee?
Thou art my only trust
And still my soul would cleave to Thee
Though prostrate in the dust

Hast Thou not bid me seek Thy face,
And shall I seek in vain?
And can the ear of sovereign grace,
Be deaf when I complain?
No still the ear of sovereign grace,
Attends the mourner’s prayer
Oh may I ever find access,
To breathe my sorrows there

Thy mercy seat is open still,
Here let my soul retreat
With humble hope attend Thy will,
And wait beneath Thy feet,
Thy mercy seat is open still,
Here let my soul retreat
With humble hope attend Thy will,
And wait beneath Thy feet

I don't know how to pray anymore in a way that is true and real. None of it works, none of it means a thing and if I do it I am kidding myself and playing a silly game... except for this:

when there is absolutely nothing left for me to do and I am at my end, this is all I can do.

Life (or God or maybe Satan)

has dealt me some disappointing blows. Some I have overcome with grace and dignity, Some I have yet to fully overcome, and still some have only just hit with a sickening thud.

well, shit.

Aside: You, boys in the desert, I commend you for the incredibly gracious spirit with which you are meeting your disappointments. I cannot seem to do so quite yet.

Here are some wise words from Wendell that are giving me a bit of consolation:



The Sycamore


In the place that is my own place, whose earth
I am shaped in and must bear, there is an old tree growing,
a sycamore that is a wondrous healer of itself.
Fences have been tied to it, nails driven into it,
hacks and whittles cut into it, the lightning has burned it.
There is no year it has flourished in
that has not harmed it. There is a hollow in it
that is its death, though its living brims whitely
at the lip of the darkness and flows outward.
Over all its scars has come the seamless white
of the bark. It bears the gnarls of its history
healed over. It has risen to a strange perfection
in the warp and bending of its long growth.
It has gathered all accidents into its purpose.
It has become the intention and radiance of its dark fate.
It is a fact, sublime, mystical and unassailable.
In all the country there is no other like it.
I recognize in it a principle, an indwelling
the same as itself, and greater, that I would be ruled by.
I see that it stands in its place, and feeds upon it,
and is fed upon, and is native, and maker.


Amen. Shalom.

well, brothers, thank you.

I've long learned not to run from the darkness because He sometimes is found within it (check out how He comes in David's song #18, v 9 and 11: "'He bowed the heavens also, and came down with thick darkness under His feet...He made darkness His hiding place, His canopy around Him, darkness of waters, thick clouds of the skies." yikes).

For that very reason, I approach this with fear and trembling, for its danger and power is not foreign to me. But I don't want to run. It'd be silly any way- I know it/He would inevitably catch me.

Maybe I'm just in the middle of a reminder of where He has brought me from. Maybe so.

David wrote a song, # 27, and it's simply full of despair. His despair is laced with hope, though. He ends it in hope.
Read it and be hopeful.

With me.

Shalom