Prayers of the Broken
The morning begins with prayer,
a silent recitation of sin and hope,
of brokeness never forgotten,
illness never cured, a pouring out
of sadness and madness
and fears dancing in your head like skeletons,
a pouring out of demons,
pointy headed and mocking,
that have plagued your night.
It is not a pleasant thing, these prayers.
They are too honest, too raw,
too blind to see how loved you are
that God will listen once again
without slapping you silly,
the dunce in the class.
Instead, he lets you vent, rant, cry out your confusion,
lets you burn in your morning hell
until the air is once again clear and clean,
the ashes settled and easily disposed of,
ready to begin your day, a child once more,
able to sing a simple “Jesus loves me”,
strangely innocent, no longer a prisoner
of your own failings.
About this poem.
I often talk about my morning devotions. A time of reading, prayer and meditation. Most people probably think of that as a peaceful time.
PS – The picture was taken in my church’s attic.