My wounds, drawn from the well of grief, my brokeness, my anger, 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 react,

when instead by faith I 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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