The Well of Grief where the troubles end well while wounded and feeling the death grip of hell.

But my wounds drawing from the well of grief,

my brokeness, my anger,  sense no relief.

Are these from the Father or the thief?

My heart? Dead, buried, or just broken?

Depending, is my reaction to what is spoken.

Or is the fact that I in the past would react,

when instead by faith I can now just act.

Shame distorts the well of grief

denying it to be the Mercy-seat,

a man of sorrows who washes our feet,

this holy affair where anger, we don’t meet.

The cross, Psalm 85:10, doubly sweet.

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