The Collector of Sorrows

I have a thousand separate songs,

Lyrics as words swirling through my substance,

Emotions with no reason apparent, yet present.

Rising and falling with every empathic wind worldwide.

In an instant I am afar, weeping with widows everywhere.

I no longer ask why I weep with them,

I simply embrace and offer a prayer, the reason forgotten.

Then near again, nursing my own inner wounds,

Licking them obsessively like an animal attempting to soothe

Its paw after being pricked by a rose’s thorn,

Allowing You—only with resistance—to mend my hurt.

I travel near and far, my spirit adrift in slumber,

Salvaging sorrows from sleeping souls in anguish,

Like a collector of suffering, pickling it for preservation,

To share the wounds of the weary and sorrowful.

I look to You, even in rest’s restless arms,

A guide whether awake or asleep,

Always a guardian protecting me

From my own foolish heart.

I have felt the currents of an age passing as witness,

Seen the sight of love waning and loss rising in hearts.

I have seen the desperation and emptiness of our youth,

And I am undone now as then.

Join with me in prayer for the youth,

For the aged and the unborn,

For the bride and the groom,

For the witness and the martyr both.

Lift it up even now in your soul—

Shelter them, Beloved.

Let Your mercy be new each day,

And allow them to recognize You.

Amen and amen,

Dust,

And the Bride says, “Come.”

Amen, Lord Yeshua, come.