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.

None.

H. Arnett

9/20/11