He picks up his old leather Bible and flicks the pages.
His world is crumbling, his pain immense.
He doesn’t need songs of Glory or tales of triumph.
He needs to know that God is with him at this moment.
In the trials and the torment.
In the darkness and the difficulty.
He lets the pages fall past his face.
The words melt into one another.
A black and white river in flood, a torrent of letters.
He feels a breeze brush his face, glances up to receive it.
Sends up a silent scream of a prayer.
No outward emotion, just a soul in torment.
When he looks down the pages have stopped fluttering.
In spite of the wind they are open and still.
He reads, words that might well have come from his own pen.
From his own heart.
The thought of my suffering and homelessness is bitter beyond words. It’s like wormwood and gall. I will never forget this awful time, as I grieve over my loss. My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me. My head hangs and my shoulders fall. Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: the unfailing love of the Lord never ends! By his mercies we have been kept from complete destruction. Great is his faithfulness; his mercies begin afresh each day. I say to myself, “The Lord is my inheritance; therefore, I will hope in him!”
He raises his head.
Slips the book under his arm.
And places one foot in front of the other.
Drawing on Lamentations chapter 3.