sometimes

we live in midnight institutions,

complete with limited resurrections,

searching for bedtime heroes

and untraveled imperfections,

among lost and forgotten erections;

they never knew,

just how deep the cut really was,

they never knew,

just what was taken,

on that day so long ago;

how could they?

early morning memories,

fill these empty corridors with time,

reaching out for just one more,

in this never ending reality,

taking hold of the mindless insurrections,

thrust upon this bodiless soul

with decided impropriety,

full of tight lipped incognito bullshit,

drowning in pools of molten metal mania;

sometimes it must be this way,

sometimes this is all there is,

sometimes we all go down;

sometimes it’s all right.

.

.

Writers Block

they rise up,

like diamonds in a

dream,

begging to be taken,

waiting to be used,

screaming for recognition,

then poof,

they are gone;

never to return;

it’s always something;

time to eat,

football on television,

stomach hurts,

leg hurts,

too tired,

the dog needs to go

outside,

the groceries need to

be shopped for,

it’s always something,

but;

they’re really not interested

in your excuses;

cold little monsters,

killers on steroids,

no compassion,

no mercy,

ice water running

through their veins,

scumbags,

rapists,

torturers of animals,

mass murderers,

calculated doses of

instant poison;

they deserve

everything they get;

it’s easier this way,

nobody to blame,

nobody to pin

the rap on,

nobody to take the fall,

no one pointing fingers;

no one getting any

credit;

one of these days,

I’m going to set up an ambush,

lie in wait as they pop out

from their greasy little

hiding places,

then, BAM! got ya,

you little assholes,

you greedy, stinking whores,

no more havoc for you,

no more of your

pathetic shenanigans,

no more sticking it

in my face,

no more carrots

on a stick;

yeah that’s what I’m

going to do;

just as soon as this movie

is over.

.

.

frenzy

the storm clouds gather,

rising on the distant horizon;

this new place,

this other reality,

this far off land,

where nightfall never ends;

what is left?

what more can be said?

does the madness never end?

today I would have given

you everything,

yet nothing is all you took,

tomorrow’s troubles brings fresh sorrows

all their own,

freshly killed bodies,

floating like chum on the surface,

being devoured by ravenous lizards,

frantically joining in the

morning frenzy;

I wish it were not so;

this life is no life,

it changes and rearranges,

ebbing and flowing,

never coming to completion,

creations of a creator,

children of light,

trapped within the darkness,

temporary, transient, conciliatory,

blinded to the truth;

the great illusion

we choose to believe;

deceiving and being deceived,

wounding and being wounded,

hurting and being hurt,

feeding off the leftovers,

running for the scraps;

hiding within the cracks.

.

.

use me

where is the center?

dead edges are all

that is left,

come, let us leave now,

returning to better times,

bright golden laughter,

buried deep among gentle copulations,

quiet whispers;

listen closely;

do you hear it now?

do you fear it now?

is it all            clear;

now?

it is still there,

waiting until the end,

far below the naked sun,

burning out of control,

plunging out of sight,

disappearing into the cool autumn night;

desperation,

in desperate times,

make for cries of

desperate help;

take me,

abuse me,

hurt me,

use me;

then leave me

alone.

.

.

Blessed

When I look up and see the green mountain tops, I am home. When I cross the James River and look down on its mighty flowing waters, I am home. When I feel the cool breeze blowing across the valley floor, I am home. And when I realize that this is only a taste of the home to come, merely a shadow of that which You have prepared for those who love You, I am left humbled beyond words or comprehension. Thank you Lord.

You have blessed me

beyond all that my mind

can comprehend,

You have led me through

traps and snares I could not see,

bringing me to perfect places

I never knew existed;

to You do I owe

all that I have to give;

Your mystery is unfathomable,

Your glory beyond mere words,

You stretch out Your hand

and all creation is silenced,

You speak, and Your word

becomes reality;

the Holy King of the universe,

the Lord of all there is,

the Great I Am,

Ruler of Heaven and Earth,

my God,

my Everything;

let me praise You

forever.

.

.

clarity

he awoke with new clarity,

new purpose,

new direction,

fresh divinity;

it was as if he was alive

for the very first time;

the world echoed outside,

yet the silence remained firm,

they had taken everything;

but they could not take this;

within the darkness and chaos,

the small still light burned,

like a beacon in the night,

providing hope in a

hopeless universe,

injecting life into a lifeless paradigm,

where only death and sorrow dwelled,

breathing in solitary gasps

of struggle.

.

.

words

“You brood of vipers, how can you who are evil say anything good? For out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks. The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in him, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in him. But I tell you that men will give account on the day of  judgment for every careless word they have spoken. For by your words you will be acquitted, and by your words you will be condemned.”   Matthew 12:34-37

when it comes to words,

it has always been all or nothing,

words have been my best friends,

my only companions,

my slaves,

my sluts,

my bitches,

my lovers,

my fantasies,

my obsessions,

my masters;

my salvation;

I have used words

like a healing salve,

spreading them like butter

on unseen cuts and gashes,

until there was nothing left,

a silent barrier,

behind which I could bury

all the loneliness and tears;

words have been there

when there was nothing else;

words should not be wasted

on summer roofing jobs,

or dead Italian uncles,

but then one MFA,

is worth about 2 nights

in the gutter,

following 5 day benders

which you can barely remember,

or one week in a cock-roach infested hotel,

with rats so big they stand on their hind legs,

begging like trained circus seals,

all the while daring you to do

something about it,

and all the while knowing

that you won’t;

it’s moments like that,

when you understand words

you never knew existed,

words you will never learn

at Harvard, or Princeton,

or Vassar,

as you slowly sip a bottle

of Wild Irish Rose, or Thunderbird

or Mad Dog 20/20;

I have used words to describe

every act of perversion,

every known degradation,

every dark empty thought

existing with the human soul;

so who am I to judge?

words are clay,

in the hands of an artist,

waiting to be sculpted

into unknown beauty

that defies description,

they are the face

of tragic cruelty,

beyond the limits our simple minds

can even begin to fathom;

words are nothing,

words are everything,

by your words

you will be condemned,

by your words

you will be freed;

so choose your words

wisely.

.

.

tsunami

in a dream,

I saw the water rising,

I felt it’s power,

ripping and pulling,

breaking and destroying,

smashing and killing;

swallowing everything in its path;

I awoke,

gasping for breath,

overwhelmed by the sheer

magnitude,

terrified by the raw power,

overcome by the suffering;

you awoke and asked me

what was the matter,

a dream, I replied, a bad dream,

about the future,

when? you asked;

soon, I replied.

.

.

Awakening

I was not sure when she left,

I was awakened by a light shaking

of my arm;

“Good morning, Mr. Alexsandar,

I am Doctor Popescu. How are you

doing today?”

“Fine, I think”

“Good, good, let’s take those bandages off

so we can get a look at your eyes.”

I felt his hands on my head as he

slowly unwound the gauze,

the light began to seep in,

slowly at first,

then overwhelmingly,

I winced,

I could see shapes and shadows

but could not make out

individual details,

“Ah, very good, very good,

the blisters are healing quite

nicely. Tell me what you are seeing.”

“I see light, mixed with dark shadows and

shapes.” I replied,

“hmmm, that is to be expected I suppose.

We need to give it a little more time

I believe. I will have the nurse put more

salve in your eyes and wrap them

back up”

“Good day Mr. Alexsandar.” he said,

as he left the room,

I could make out her shape as she

came into the room,

“Good morning Anatoly, when I left

yesterday you were sleeping like a baby.”

“The night nurse wrote that you

were out all night.”

“What did the doctor have to say?” I asked;

she chuckled, “As usual, he didn’t say much

of anything. But he did write that your eyes

are healing nicely and that I am to re-wrap them.”

“I am putting some drops in your eyes, you might feel

some slight stinging and discomfort.”

“So”, I said, “in a few days I might

get my eyesight back?”

“Perhaps”, she replied,

“Then I will be able to put a face

to your wonderful voice.” I added;

she was silent;

I decided to push the attack;

“What does your husband think of

you being around all these men?”

“My husband is dead” she replied,

“He was killed over a year ago. There are

many victims of this war”;

I felt the sadness in her voice;

“Perhaps when I am better, we can

get a cup of coffee together” I said;

there was more silence,

then she slowly spoke;

“Anatoly, you do not know

where you are do you? When your

eyes are better, you will be placed

in the recovery ward, with all the other

prisoners.”

.

.

Safe

“Good morning Mr. Alexsan….. um Anatoly” she said,

I wasn’t sure when she had entered the room,

I only knew that she was there;

finally;

I had thought of very little else

the entire night;

I imagined what she must look like,

I felt the touch of her fingers as she

checked my bandages;

it felt like electricity,

crackling and popping;

“how did you sleep?” she asked,

“I’m not sure that I did” I replied,

“well you must have slept some,

the overnight nurse wrote that

you were snoring very loudly

when she checked on you.” she chuckled,

we laughed together;

I had not laughed like that

since before the war,

with my wife,

that thought brought it

all back;

her death,

dying little girls,

Tukarov,

the brutality,

the savagery,

the gas,

the sounds of gasping,

the coughing,

the weeping,

the darkness;

“Anatoly, Anatoly,

it’s okay” she whispered,

holding me in her arms,

and for the first time,

in a very long time;

I felt safe.

.

.

Gas

then came the gas,

silent, deadly,

just a soft whump here,

a quiet thump there,

followed by swiftly rolling fog,

at first we weren’t even sure

what was happening,

many started dropping

before the thought

of donning a mask could

even be thought;

it seemed like such an ironic,

cruel twist of fate,

to have come so far,

only to be destroyed by

such a thing

as this;

everywhere men lay choking,

gasping for breath,

their faces twisted in deadly agony,

those who managed

to put on their masks,

powerless to help,

the burning of skin

hardly noticed by the joy

of protected lungs and

internal organs

from this slow and

evil death;

I thought of Tukarov,

I thought of my wife,

I thought of innocent little girls,

lying cold and limp in my

trembling arms,

I thought;

such a waste,

such an incredible,

stupid waste;

who has won?

who has lost?

all I could do

was cry.

.

.

Tukarov

Tukarov was dead;

it seemed like only yesterday

we had danced at his wedding,

now his body lay quiet,

face down in the mud,

a gaping hole where

his chest had once been,

ripped apart by a 50 caliber shell

from a sniper’s gun;

I wondered if he had felt anything,

as the bullet ripped through

his flesh,

tearing out pieces of lungs,

it couldn’t have been much

I thought, he was dead before

he even hit the ground,

perhaps it was better this

way,

only a few months earlier

he had lost Ulena,

after that he had never

been the same;

“we must do something,

we must fight back,

we must not die like

sheep;”

convincing me to

join the ‘cause’,

now I could not

remember what

the ‘cause’ was,

only that I was cold

and afraid,

as I sat with the rest

of our patrol,

listening to our commander

brief us on tomorrow’s

raid,

wondering when this

nightmare would ever end;

Tukarov was dead,

long live Tukarov.

.

.

'Back in the Day'

watched an old video

while riding the exercise bike,

as my youngest daughter would say,

something from ‘back in the day’,

yeah, I watched Woodstock,

and no, I wasn’t there,

although sometimes I think

I must have been the only one

who wasn’t;

it brought back old memories,

so it was kind of like I was there;

Wavy Gravy and the Hog Farm,

the Merry Pranksters,

living for the moment,

like some lost ancient tribe,

it made me wonder

where they are today,

dot.com execs,

living in the hills

around San Francisco,

in multi-million dollar mansions,

or dead (farewell Kesey);

Richie Havens,

righteous and dignified,

singing about freedom and truth,

Canned Heat and the Bear,

bouncing around the stage

like a hippopotamus in heat,

lithe and graceful,

poetry in motion,

Joan Baez

rambling on about

county jails and causes,

blah blah blah,

fast forward,

I suppose she was cool

for the times,

but a little hard to take today,

the wounded dove,

sad little puppy dog eyes look,

gets a bit old,

Daltrey,

young and god-like,

Moon, wild and crazy eyed,

playing drums with demonic possession,

Townsend sending whirlybirds

round and round;

the workout came to an end,

there was other things

I had to take care of,

so I didn’t watch the rest of the video;

but it was enough;

memories from ‘back in the day’

only go so far,

before you remember

how badly you wanted them

to be over;

when you were living them.

.

.

The Ballad of Rico and Annabelle

Rico is dying,

but he doesn’t know it,

every day he tells his friends

he is getting better,

every day he grows worse;

he has been to places,

no one should be,

he has seen things,

no one should see;

Annabelle lives alone,

she sits in her box like Greta Garbo,

isolated and alone,

dusted and sheik,

no reason for living,

no reason for dying,

traveling into the hidden night,

without a thought or care;

Rico is in love with Annabelle,

he has loved her for as long as he can remember,

everyday he sees her pass by,

everyday he remains quiet,

everyday he stares passively into the sky,

unconcerned,

uninterested,

that is the way of love;

it is best left unsaid;

Annabelle has waited all her life;

she holds Rico in her arms,

she sees him in her dreams,

she kisses his lips,

she caresses his face,

they make love in her mind;

life begins,

life ends,

this is the way of things,

there’s never enough time;

farewell my friends.

.

.

None But You

Therefore Jesus said again, “I tell you the truth, I am the gate for the sheep. All who ever came before me were thieves and robbers, but the sheep did not listen to them. I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. He will come in and go out, and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”   John 10:7-10

Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to men by which we must be saved.   Acts 4:12

the night time sky approaches,

the last rays of sunlight break through

the distant storm clouds,

small patches of blue linger,

creating pools of tranquility

within the departing maelstrom,

it is here I seek Your refuge,

it is here I hold on to Your hope;

another day comes,

another day goes,

the cost slowly taking its toll,

rising and falling with each

passing breath,

all the meaningless decisions,

all the thoughtless words,

still Your love remains,

still You pour out Your blessings

where none are deserved;

light within the darkness,

life inside this death;

who can speak of wonders

which words can never say?

who can understand mysteries

which can never be known?

none but You Lord,

none but You.

.

.

A Very Dangerous Thing

The saying that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing is, to my mind, a very dangerous adage. If knowledge is real and genuine, I do not believe that it is other than a very valuable possession, however infinitesimal its quantity may be. Indeed, if a little knowledge is dangerous, where is a man who has so much as to be out of danger?   Thomas Huxley

deep within cavern walls,

victory but a moment away,

lying just beyond

the frozen landscape;

so close,

so far;

defining moments come

and go,

providing very little

meaning,

a temporary fog,

a momentary diversion,

a slight pause in the program,

a necessary distraction;

surely,

the price has been paid;

I feel the slithering presence,

I know the approaching omnipotence,

it is never far behind,

seeking more,

thirsting for the last drop,

sucking the last breath,

taking all there is to give,

hiding within the night,

running from the light;

giving in with barely a fight;

destinations change with the season,

faces never what they seem,

understanding no longer an option,

lost inside this never ending dream;

you know the answers,

you know the way,

you know the truth;

and that can be

a very dangerous thing.

.

.

Some Days

dark days without sun,

some days you remember,

some days you don’t,

traveling down moonless roads

in the middle of this forever

winding night,

desperately seeking a

continuously changing destination,

even now you feel the sting,

even now you know the

hopelessness;

does this sadness never end?

somewhere on the journey,

you fell in love with the pain,

looking forward to the next

big heartache,

silently wishing for the loneliness,

secretly reveling in the emptiness,

taking comfort in the isolation,

finding solace in nothing and

no one;

inside there is a great vastness,

an untapped well of darkness,

stretching beyond the horizon,

more than the untrained eye

can imagine,

more than can be described,

it is upon these shores

that you drift;

it is the only place

you have ever called home;

outside they wait,

screaming for just a little more,

waiting for the finale,

thirsting for the ultimate thrill,

the final curtain,

the last call,

and you know that somehow

you will deliver the goods;

know matter what the cost.

.

.

Waiting For The Show to Begin

the sun beats down,

102 degrees as you

silently wait for

the show to begin,

it is always like this;

a pause,

a cost,

a loss;

there is no other way;

the knife cuts deep,

you seek a finish,

a final place of rest as

it comes upon you cold

and wet,

rushing and wild,

strangely familiar;

empty and final;

there are things bigger

than fear or lust,

bigger than insecurities

or satisfaction,

places where the night

gathers once more,

never what it seems,

never what is expected,

licking every last drop,

leaving nothing behind,

raging like a beast

with no hope for tomorrow,

purging every second

for all it is worth,

ripping flesh into

mountainous shreds,

scattering forgotten remains

upon the blowing wind,

howling until the morning

dawn;

a place which no one can see,

a land that no one can understand.

.

.

An Apology

one last time;

the night quietly gathers,

as the sun slowly disappears,

I will never see your

vast, luscious valleys,

never taste the sweetness

of your swift running streams,

never hear the sound

of your softly rustling leaves,

blowing in the cool, gentle, breeze,

never find the peace of your

distant, fading solitude,

never know the mystery of your

intoxicating touch;

again;

should have left well enough alone,

should have let it die,

a friend indeed is far better

than a lover gone,

yet sometimes weakness

overcomes strength,

sometimes dreams are more

than can be resisted;

some things are better

left unsaid;

and that is all

which can be said,

now it shall be no more,

just as so many others

which were but are not,

nothing, nothing at all,

simply a fading mist,

a slight murmur among

the daily buzz,

goodbye my love

that is but never was;

I’m sorry.

.

.

Past Due

Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come you who are blessed by my father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you? The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine you did for me.’ Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’ They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you? He will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’   Matthew 25:34-46

now it begins;

the time arrives at last,

no more excuses,

no more pretending,

no more room for denial;

you watched as my children

lay dying,

broken and bleeding,

naked and alone,

crying out for justice and mercy,

you smiled as I suffered,

you laughed while I was beaten,

you turned your backs

as I slowly starved,

your pursuit of pleasure and

perpetual comfort, made

you soft and weak,

your greed has crushed you,

your delusions of grandeur

and self-importance have

blinded you,

your lack of understanding

and compassion has sealed

your fate,

your denial of truth has

damned you,

your destruction is assured,

your chosen leaders have abandoned

you to the grave;

now it begins;

O Babylon, your time has come;

payment is past due.

.

.

Consumption

I am slowly being consumed,

dying a little bit more

everyday;

anger,

bitterness,

hatred,

darkness;

and I wonder

who is listening,

and who is only

pretending;

I have nothing left to say,

everything has been said,

I cannot make people listen,

I have done all I can do,

on my own I can do nothing,

nothing at all;

the past moves on,

quietly becoming no more;

the misery,

the suffering,

the struggling;

everything changes,

everything fades;

even this;

they watch from afar,

waiting for the destruction,

carried on by the wind,

glowing with the anticipation;

there is no beginning,

there is no return;

farther along,

somewhere down the line,

deeper into the divide,

shattered by the consumption,

confusion spreads it’s mighty tongue,

buried deep within the confines

of this burned out refuge,

where even the echoes

become silent,

these lines to nowhere,

these forgotten denizens;

when do you fall?

I have come to a crossroad,

I can no longer find goodness

in people,

I see only hidden agendas,

greed, self-righteousness;

we are all failed,

we are all ravenous dogs,

we are all hypocrites;

all our noble deeds,

all our false concerns,

simply a show;

in You I cling to one last hope,

in You I still see the potential,

in You I have been redeemed.

.

.

eventually

I cannot go where you are, in

this land of impossible perfection,

this home of beautiful dreams and

never ending fantasies, where

tears do not fall;

a world for others;

not us;

in the morning I watch your face

for the last time,

we both know words

will never be enough;

everything ends,

everything temporary,

everything just an illusion,

always just a touch

beyond possibility,

always a bit more

than can be imagined;

this great sorrow,

this magnificent sadness,

this other reality;

eventually truth catches up

with us all.

.

.

Spared

quietly we waited for the dawn attack,

silently hiding within the refuge of the

dark, lonely night,

sleep was impossible, as we tried

to hang on to every minute,

every second, knowing they would likely be

our last,

on the other side,

the enemy waited also,

just as afraid, just as unsure,

soon it would be us or them,

kill or be killed,

for most this would be their

last day on earth;

many openly wept,

remembering mothers and fathers,

sisters and wives,

brothers and children;

I saw the face of my wife,

as she had looked before

the war, before the madness,

before the chaos,

before the hatred,

sweet and serene,

I was glad she had died

early,

being spared the emptiness

of what we had now become,

the monsters we had all been

reduced to,

capable of any cruelty,

living only for death and revenge,

reflections of what had

once been human;

I was glad she had been spared.

.

.

Friend

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.   1 Corinthians 13:4-7

I watch you blossom,

I hear the joy in your voice,

I see the happiness on your face,

I feel the peace inside your heart;

my beautiful desert flower,

my warm, sweet dream,

my refuge within the storm,

my last pure thought;

you are my friend,

I love you unconditionally,

I love you completely;

I always will.

.

.

Haves and Have Nots/A Dream

it’s easy to turn your back,

when you’re one of the haves;

have a job,

have a home,

have money,

have food;

have affordable health care;

believing the lies,

giving into the fears,

buying into the stereotypes;

they’re all lazy,

they’re all immoral,

they’re all looking

for a free lunch;

they all get what they

deserve;

so afraid

they might take

something that belongs

to you,

some of your hard earned

treasure,

all the things

you sweated and slaved for,

all the idols you fall down before

and worship,

all the things you sold

your soul for;

the have-nots of the world

are beginning to rise,

they’re not going away quietly

anymore,

they’re tired of the abuse,

they’re no longer content

with the crumbs,

there are things

bigger than themselves;

things worth dying for;/

the children of men hold their breath,

a final sigh before the meltdown,

a silent pause within the maelstrom,

hearts fail from fear,

meeting in secret places,

waiting for what is to come;

like a thief in the night

it sweeps them away;

trees smolder and smoke,

bursting into flames as

tires begin to steam,

rubber melting

to the highway surface;

no where to run,

no where to hide;

like abandoned wells,

their water runs dry,

they sit withering in the sun,

wandering through the wilderness,

lost and alone;

the day is here,

the time is now;

Your mercy endures

to the end,

but who shall hear the message?

who shall accept the grace?

when the Son of Man returns

will he find faith?

.

.

I Am Going

the rain outside reflects the mood;

cold, wet and tired,

the world slows down,

unable to sustain the momentum;

we hardly take notice;

moments pass by,

until there is nothing left,

betrayal becomes inevitable,

behind treacherous walls of

sardonic infidelity,

complacency swallows up her victims,

like leftovers in lonely dumpsters,

filled with jewels of the night

and other bedtime stories;

I am going,

but I’m not going

quick enough;

youth lies wasted,

energy a one-way street,

you can never go back,

you can never return to the places

lost among the shadows;

somewhere within these ruins

lie strangers empty and drained,

hidden by lost memories

and walls of battered abuse;

forever searching,

forever wondering

forever knowing;

sometimes it’s nothing more than words,

sometimes words say it all,

sometimes words are all there is;

sometimes words are not enough.

.

.

Tired

life was silent this morning,

distant and confused;

I am tired of the pain,

I am tired of the suffering;

yet still You raise me up,

even now You carry me forward;

without You there is nothing;

the dreams grow,

the time almost here,

the moment rushes forward,

payment past due,

the taste becomes bitter,

inside this dry and dying

cauldron;

I am tired of the pain,

I am tired of the suffering;

yet still You raise me up,

even now You carry me forward;

without You there is nothing.

.

.