Held down by denial,
oppressed by oblivion,
as torrents break we fancy them a whirlpool.
Nothing prepares for this crisis of self,
when the spirit, crying, How long, how long?
hears instead the call to crawl
into the dust and weep.
To whom have You dealt thus?
Yet no better are we who bear Your name and smirk
than those who know no different.
Beneath Your wounds, this is joy:
the outcome sure,
where cross and crown stand interwoven.
Remember us, Jesus, when You return.
We remember Your cross, and wait.
The Consolations of Writing 
Your poetry always speaks to my heart, Matthew. This one particularly so, as my son Caleb is enduring an unexplained illness. As we wait for treatment to help, we pray for a divine miracle of healing and the presence of the Lord who we believe is coming soon.
Thankyou, Tony, for your encouragement. And I will certainly keep you, Caleb and your family in my prayers.