You may not see the storms that rage
behind my daily stoic smile:
the silent endurance of misplaced pride,
the choice to cope apart from grace.
You may not see the twitch in my face
as we pass the place where I often lied
and kept my face in stern, set denial,
that trick passed down from age to age.
But walk still with me as we turn the page;
you and I both have parts we revile,
dirt upon the souls we vainly hide,
the filth we drag about us from place to place.
Our broken feet will always struggle with the pace;
we could not get better if we tried.
No matter: grace carries us, this and every mile.
It has arms enough to hold, words to assuage
our pride, our fear, the lies of every age,
and tears off layers to find our truest face.
The Consolations of Writing 