Don’t press me any harder. I am scraped low, slung out, And strung hard between bitten hours And bent, bated minutes. I haunt from room to room. People pat me on the shoulder And don’t know what to say. How long with this last? I’m not going to make it. But if you love me, save me.
You capture this so well. You fill in that huge empty, real space of the somewhere between the "cry for mercy and God's acceptance of the prayer." This quiet, delicate, intricate grace.
"...but grace
Rises slowly, wears disguises,
And turns on such small hinges?"
You capture this so well. You fill in that huge empty, real space of the somewhere between the "cry for mercy and God's acceptance of the prayer." This quiet, delicate, intricate grace.
I felt this in my ribs. Thank you.