Ragged connection, impeded by stain,
unworthy-worn, but willing for the One
to strengthen frail hands and black heart again.
I cry to the Fullness from dry, barren
places, so broken that shards lay bloody
and lifeless, melded together by tears.
Death is a thief, but I think I can see
that some things are much worse; and the fear is
that loss and grief of a sudden absence
will twist what’s left of this weak connection
into a bleak pulse, a long low cadence,
fouling the pained heart’s hope of redemption.
Out of the depths, out of the broken black,
may Mercy find me and carry me back.