The Master’s {Violent} Mercy

Island-in-a-storm[1]

I had a dream that long I sat
Upon a distant shore,
And trembled lonely in the storm,
And knew myself no more.

There was a Voice to steady me,
But I lost it in the wind.
And so I knew not who I was,
Nor who I’d ever been.

I listened to the roaring waves,
And to the sand and sea,
I let them tell me how to think,
And who I was to be.

Until I feared the sea would rise
And crush me with its spite,
And drown my hope upon the rocks,
And snuff the day to night.

I called to the Master of the Sea;
I knew that He could save.
For once upon a distant time,
He spoke to the wind and waves.

But He would not calm the raging storm,
He only held my hand,
And let it beat us bruised and bloody,
Over the calloused sand.

I fought and groaned and cursed aloud,
I wept into His face.
I judged Him for His cruelty,
I blamed His failing grace.

Then He lifted me into His arms,
And whispered, “Do not mourn.
This is not where mercy dies,
But the place that it is born.

I have not come to spare the storm
That threatens peace and health,
But to use the very storm you fear,
To save you from yourself.”

It was then I knew His endless grace,
Had come to change within,
And at the very end of me,
At last we could begin.

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