Anger

I'm angry because it hurts.

I'm angry because it spits in justice's face.

I'm angry because it just won't go away.

I'm angry because I can't fix myself without you, and I still trip on sin.

I'm angry because I want to know.

I'm angry because I do know.

I'm angry because it's real.

I'm angry because they're not hearing what I'm trying desperately to say.

And what do I do with all of it?

This raging, frustrating, burning, and screaming?

Pounding and wrestling and yearning and kicking?

Beating and thumping and screeching and tearing and scorching and yelling?

Do you want this, too?

Do you want it in a nice package tied with a bow?

Do you want it in my silent fumings?

Do you want it in my songs of praise?

Do you want it when I'm on my bed?

Or when I'm in the room?

Do you want it now?

Or do you want to take it when I've calmed down?

Are these the questions with answers beyond my grasp?

Are these the groans my spirit bleeds

that are beyond my understanding?

Am I going crazy?

God is just! God is good!

These are the first premises,

and my heart will rage with them.

I'll yell them to silence the liars' chant, "God won't come through for you."