A multitude of unuttered words
A million unspoken thoughts
Tons and tons of unasked questions
An avalanche of unanswered concerns
But
Who do we turn to?
Who do we ask?
Who do we confront with our heart rending burden?
On whom do we vent our fury?
Where do we even begin to seek for a hearing one?
What do we even say when we find a willing ear?
Where do we even start when we find a listening heart?
Ah but there is One who answers before we speak
And hears while we are yet speaking
We go to Him for all things
For any other thing
Any other thing
Yet most definitely not this one thing
This one thing, this one thing
Why not this? For fear
What do we fear if He is ever ready?
Do we fear His presence or His answer?
Why fear?
Is not He able also to blot out all the sorrow
And replace them with the countless joyful memories we have of her?
So why do we fear to approach the throne of Grace?
Is not He the God of all comfort?
Ah! how do we come to terms with this?
How can we ever understand this?
When do we ever let go of our grief?
And at the pinnacle of the mountain,
That mountain of unasked questions
Is that one question which ever resounds in our hearts
Which we can only but whisper
Why Lord, why?
Then in our moment of distress
In our season of troubles and groaning
When our hearts are heavy laden with grief
And our faces are downcast with eyelids that we can barely raise
Which we only open to reveal eyes bloodshot with much crying
In that very moment of hopelessness
When that word, hope, is the farthest from our minds
We hear You ever so clearly
Ever so assuredly You say to us
I have loved you with an everlasting love
And with lovingkindness have I drawn you
Chiamaka is in loving arms
She is in safe hands
Let not your hearts be troubled my dear ones
I am with you always, even unto the end
Even unto the end my beloveds
Even unto the end
What can we more say?
This is the answer we least expected
And yet, how well it fills the void
How well it soothes our troubled, sorrowing hearts
Then in the midst of the tears running down
The lips quiver as if unsure of what it is about to do
Then they turn up slightly
Into a beautiful smile
It is but a sliver yes, but all the same that is what it is
A smile, a smile
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem