I have pain. Pain words can't express.
Sober. Sober. Sober. I'm sober.
My mind is clear--clear and steadfast and writhing.
People hope drink will drown their pain,
while I hope prayer will pour mine
onto your hands and your feet drop by drop.
I can only come so far. Lord, call me closer.
Groans. O my groans.
I form the unformed words that wait in desolate places
for mourners who stand by full graves,
and women who kneel with empty wombs.
How do I say it?
My husband is enough. Yes. Yes.
God is enough. Yes. Yes.
Ah! How do I express that I want more?
There is nothing left inside of me, and still it burns.
Burns. Burns. Burns.
Will no one speak for me? Even here, where
the Lord dwells, will no one come to my aid?
Men fight and kill oppressors who take what is rightfully theirs,
but what do I with my tormentor?
She sits at my table. She lies in my bed.
She shares my husband's love.
Shares my husband's children.
O children.
Lord, you are near, I can sense you.
When I open my eyes, my God,
please, have a promise waiting for me,
a promise that I will bear a child
who will serve you forever.
O Lord, you know I beg deeply;
find favor with me and
imagine, then, how deeply I'll praise
when you raise up my head.
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