I can't stand.
Pulling me in, using my weakness against me, making me fight again a battle long ago won.
How long can I resist?
The Russian rules my waking thoughts, promising comfort within, beyond the sting;
I can't hold on.
Quenching the thirst of my heart while dehydrating my soul, stealing my sanity.
Should I give in?
NO!
The gentle Nazarene with the blood stained garments and scarred hands, eyes so full of love,
He stands for me.
Pulling me in, using my weakness to grow me, fighting the battles I'm too weak to win.
He resists for me.
The Nazarene guides me, delivers the comfort promised, and silences the sting,
He holds me.
Quenching my heart, restoring my soul, calming my mind, with living waters,
I surrender to Him.
© 12 January 2012, Suzanne G. McClendon
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