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Rated: E · Poetry · Religious · #2276707
A brief poem about some of the religious benefits of chronic pain.

As the light slowly fades,

and the dawn of burnt embers reign

it is easy to forget the beauty in the pain.

The hand of perfection

touches the imperfect

with a stunning grace

that can only cause one to pause and reflect.

The dark stabbing,


aching pull of the agony we suffer

Can have a tendency to paint

even a sunny day like one torn asunder.

You feel the ancient burgeoning smoke building within,

pregnant with hot acrid fat drops that fall with each twinge.

It's easy to forget the cleansing nature

that this hot torture can have upon the soul.

The terrible feature of our condition

of being creatures of this natural, physical state

causes us to forgo the grace

thrust upon us when in such hot pain.

These physical maladies may wash us clean,

cleansing away the darkened stains upon our souls.

They help make us pure like the freshly driven snow.

If only we forgo, let go of ourselves

and lift up this pain in offering to the one

who has forgone everything

to suffer a fate so we may be included,

as unworthy as we all are,

amongst the ones to meet God face to face.
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