Mark 5:1-6:6 - When Death does Not Win



Poem – Rory Grant
Mark 5:1-20

on this holy ground
I wander
barefoot, broken
lawless, breaking
naked before you

these stones they cut

the sharpness of life
rises around me
a tomb of a thousand tiny cuts
inescapable and raw
hemmed in
by darkness and light
harsh as a razor
sharp as a stone

“Lord, most high”
a mocking voice
cracks my parched lips
Your eyes cut through my darkness

Your light of revelation
my confession of pain

a scream
a breath
the devil is in me
my demons they drown me

sirens sound
within me
as family flee
the taint of my being
comes violence
comes me

don’t make me leave!
my tombstone certainty
gives shape to my dying
the maddening edge of shadow
sharper than a shiver
heat and cold
dark and bright

shards of light
cut my reality
like a ragged knife
shatters to slivers
wounding all who come near

bargaining for breathing space
instead I find freedom
at your feet
lays my brokenness

You are Prince of heaven
You are Lord of peace
You bring colour and shape
green pastures
still waters
where there had been
only the edge of existence
darkening light

I confess
I could stay
at Your side
if only I could stay
in this moment
in this freedom
this peace

Your Spirit is in me
Your love it fills me
Your river found me
Your life it grounds me


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