Where Is The End

Where, through the dawn of restless nights, o lord, do you appear to take away the deepest heartache and make clear my wondering thoughts?  As the sun rises on another day of confusion and labor, tortured by questions unanswered or worse unanswerable, is the peace beyond to remain untouchable in its basis of sovereignty.  

Heartbreak abounds with each remembrance and then with every renewal of actions thought through and then literal.  Where did action start that ended with inaction and distress to self and those to follow?  What pieces were and are hidden still recline and await discovery, only to sting the heart again and progress to vague and numbed unknowns and why? 

Inquisition mocks those who find no reason and laughs to know there is none.  Questions asked to those who do not know and unanswerable by those who do lie still on their marks, deemed silent by the effect of their purpose and result.  Where is there reason when peace of man falls outside his grasp and only divinity’s mercy can extend an adequate reach?  

Can no answer be the answer to a question no man has?  Can there be contentment rather than contention in its limitless limitations?  Can heart threads be mended when woven together, though fragments and frays make the material?  How futile is the man who searches and cannot find or how wise can he become in his futility?  

Where is the end to the unbeaten path when insights may or may not await another machete blow?  Can wisdom lead to a peace that cannot be known without the burning labor of monotonous obedience, though no path is known and only promise is motivated by the slicing through of disconnected thoughts and feelings, revealing only enough to make room for another blow?  

The rambling of an ancient heart makes paths where none appear.  The stroke, the fall of debris, the pause to listen once again to a call to strike again and carry on, while ever listening to the voice, the echo, even the drift of the call that leads, and encourages, and comforts the sting of repetition, and aimless searching of the growth before but not behind as it closes in to block retreat and doubt. 

Is the answer within the strength of one, or two, within one man?  Not without the dire consequences of futility, desperation, disappointment and lost time and energy.  Trust the path the voice beckons you onto and the sufficiency of strength enabled for the trip.  

Trust that each blow reveals its purpose alone and that a thousand blows may be the goal more so than where they may end.  As though these were an end.  Far certain are the shoots, and vines, and brambles before and behind.  

For sure are the efforts made necessary by one's geography.  For sure are the choices set before you—to stand and cease further progress, to return, only to hack away at a life so much effort and blisters have already lived; or to move onward and forward toward the voice or a glimpse of light through the confusion of growth, all the while gleaning the lessons meant solely for this path and this path alone.  

For trust, for relationship, for service of the exercise of simple obedience and faith.  Give me strength, Father, and peace to follow your voice alone.  Cleanse my mind to know your call as clear and trustworthy and with purpose.