To the Lifter of Heads

I am broken, weary, and weak. When I say I'm broken, I don't mean it in that sought after sense given to it by catchword Christianity, but I mean I am broken like a bone. When I say I am weary, it is not the weariness of a good day's work or a good day's hike or a good day, but the weariness born of the failed but repeated attempts to bear myself or to bear myself up. When I say I'm weak, I don't mean a Pauline weakness that allows for God's strength, but a weakness that is too weak to be weak. I am bankrupt. Every word I speak is contaminated with the plague in my soul, infecting everyone it touches. Every thought I think is a disguise that hides a deeper ugliness. Every cry is one of pain from a shattered heart, a tormented mind, a lonely soul, and a sapped strength. I dig my fingers into the walls of the pit, I try to climb out, but the earth crumbles in my hands. I hear of restoration and laugh with derision. I hear of truth and wonder what is its point. I hear of God and can only hang my head. I hear of myself and despair. But I hear of Christ and still, still I hope.