To Weep Bitterly
Men can cry.
At the behest of of life and in the face of daily exigencies, our steeled countinances may crumble. I know this firsthand, and while the evidence of such remains in deeply private moments of my life, known to no other than myself and my God, it is nonetheless something that I wish to commemorate, as the dawn of life’s joys erases it like the incoming tide. I felt this yearning to never forget those depths of silent sorrow.
Have you ever wept into a contorted exhaustion, as if to surrender that agony to rise directly out of your flesh? Have you ever drawn a stream of tears and whimpers until the ducts and passageways begin to close? Have you ever cried out to some expression of that pain inside, but found that nothing more than a soft mumbled anguish escaped your lips?
Like some grand diminuendo, you lead that bitterness down by the hand to deposit it in the deep. And when you reach that place, you look up. A soft gentle sliver of peace and light rests upon your face. It is merely a flicker of hope in that little tempestuous cell of darkness. As if from a far off, God seems to smile, not in an indulgent satisfaction of the affliction, but rather in the trust He has in you and your ability to escape.
And thus, you quake, you tremble.
