What could I,
But press my palm against my trembling lip?
And clench my tongue between my teeth lest slip
Accusing words, and angry whys
Hiccupped between hot tears.
Why beat a brick
Wall, as if my fist could break it?
Back of my tears I could not shake
Knowledge of a gentle Builder,
Who lays harsh stones with
If not beat,
Then yield, thought I. Let another
Reap from my sorrow. Let some boon
Seep from my tears - what though
The gain be His who pressed, not mine
My heart ached still to live and longed
To give to Him. To Him who had begun
All that was receding from my grasping. And I cried,
“Then break me!
Only let your glory shine through my breaking!
The fruit that swells and blushes on the bush
Watered by my tears; the years spent bent
Above the whistling flame; the first-fruits of my pain
So said I.
And struggle done, and thinking the gain from each
Pin-poke of my pain His, I turned to live a hundred
Long tomorrows. I didn’t know that I had wrestled out
My peace. While weeping, hot tears had cleansed. Pressed beneath
His thumb, I could not wriggle from His gaze. Prayer, wrung
From my reluctant soul, wove a ladder to the face of
His, perhaps, the glory-harvest.
But through spring’s slow season, no fruit shows. Yet
My soul breathes in fragrance oozing from sweet,
Fresh-burst blossom. My eyes drink the pink and white
Sight of bloom.
My peace has sprung.