They come to us
in the pain of betrayal and guilt,
hurt and anger,
wondering what hope there is
that a thing this broken
can be made whole again,
or if it ever was.
Covered in the grime and smoke
of the foundry,
he sits on the blanket quickly thrown on the couch,
her neat and clean beside him.
Their wound is fresh,
its flesh vivid and aching,
Satan’s own seeking to devour them,
to convince them that this
cannot be healed,
cannot be forgiven,
cannot be cleansed and strengthened.
But he who has healed us of our diseases,
who has forgiven us of our betrayals,
who has cleansed us of sin
and strengthened what was vile and weak,
speaks grace and peace
even into this moment of darkness.
Already, at the acid-etching edge
of this drowning shroud
there is promise
like that of a fog-clouded morning
when the sun is turned into the moon,
a pale whiteness that will soon
change into the cleansing light of day.
There is no wound
that he cannot heal
if it be surrendered to him.