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.