I feel your frailty. The tears shed on Gethsemane. The war against your will to terminate your sinless life for me, a child of disobedience. Your helplessness as death suddenly developed confidence around you. I hear your screams as your skin was shred off your frame by those soldiers who couldn’t allow you groan with dignity. They had to make a joke on your personality. They humiliated God.
I see your frailty. The glaring discomforts at shouldering a weighty cross of iniquity down Calvary. Your thirst from exhaustion. Your pain, shame and feeling of negligence as the father diverted his gaze from your plight. You weren’t pressured into putting up a tough front before the piercing gaze of creation to prove that you’re not just a man, that you’re God, and God doesn’t cry. In your frailty, Yahweh, you cried. And because you did, I thought I should talk to you.
I’m lost in the streets of depression, held captive by crazy thoughts invading my mind. The feeling of inadequacy engulfs me. I think I’m underperforming. My confidence has absconded from my consciousness. Fear, guilt, low self esteem and uncertainty surround me. I’m here, sinking in misery as a gang of demons douse me in frustration. Today, I feel my frailty. My tranquillity is besieged.
I’m standing by the shores where Life’s waves has drifted me. One minute I let out a sigh of relief, the next, the waves tower over me with rage and awash my soul with trepidation. This voice that was once strong, shouting through many tempests, overshadowing monstrous winds, has become mute. What can I possibly offer in this state? I crawl under a shell of self pity and sulk at a future that gets dimmer with each exhaled breath.
Can’t life just pretend for once that all that it offers is bliss so humanity can party in oblivion to what tomorrow brings? Why is it rebuffing our joys, living aloof like it can survive all alone? If it drives all of humanity from its sphere would it enjoy its existence by itself? I mean, does life crave it’s own company so much that it keeps hitting its inhabitants with wild storms that’ll drive them nuts till they eventually give up?
Yahweh, did you give up?
I’m giving up already. I feel fatigued by these struggles, daunted by the circumstances. The courageous me that’s capable of breaking the chains of frustration is gradually finding this dungeon of pain cozy. Captivity is rejoicing at my frailty. My feet are wobbling like grandpa’s. But even grandpa isn’t chickened by challenges. Although aged, he still chases the wind and lays hold on his personality. Such strong personality that has conquered pain and all forms of intimidation.
I want to chase this wind racing into obscurity with my true identity. I want to come out of the shadows. To intimidate storms again. I want to peep through this night and see the morning humming a new song, bubbling with joy. I want to break forth with the morning, dancing to the rhythm of victory. I’m tired of the heartaches dished out to humanity, wherewith I’m judiciously served. I want to be a voice. A voice of hope.
They say our circumstances are fitting gloves for people who’d someday tread our path- gloves that’ll shield their hands as they punch hard on adversity. Would my circumstance become someone’s fitting glove someday? Which sane being would even envy this path enough to walk through it? I dunno. Not like I planned charting this course anyway. But I’ve found myself here, lost in these streets of hopelessness.
Yahweh, although I’m certain this isn’t exactly what you went through, I want to wear your gloves and punch to stupor these beasts feasting on my sanity. You have experienced the heights of pain and the depths of humiliation. Who else could understand my afflictions like you do? You even said I could exchange my yoke for yours. How could I have forgotten that offer? And your yoke isn’t even weighty. It isn’t all the humiliation, tears, shame, pains, and discomforts you experienced unto death. Your yoke is easy: it is the acceptance of the victory you’ve wrought for me on calvary.
I could give myself a thorough beating for realising this late: how much you care; how much you desire that I see not my frailty in yours, but my victory. I’d admit though, it’s hard to believe when standing on shifting sand. Storms just have a way of ducking one’s head in misery so their eyes can’t behold your unconditional love and grace. But this is how far it goes. I’m clingling to the truth that you care enough to carry these burdens.
So here’s my yoke Lord.
Give me yours.