Despair that stings at failure's vicious blow,
And darkens every hopeful, brilliant light,
Who grows with every gruesome loss I know—
Against thy pow'r I will forever fight.
The dart that zings past shield and sharply through
My breastplate, piercing to my very heart,
Way lays my mind as failure clouds my view—
A war with poison pessimism starts.
This poison can't be fought with sword or spear,
For poison runs its shady course within.
But there is reason not to fall to fear—
My Great Physician holds the medicine.
Afflicted oft, but never crushed while here;
Perplexed, but never driven to despair.
1 comment:
This is a pretty hard-to-read poem, in ways. Yet it is a feeling that I think most of us are familiar with (I know I am!): near-despair. I fail or fall, slip or stumble, and soon enough I find despair trying to creep in. And every time a vicious battle ensues. It seems that despair leads to more despair, for I tend to despair even over the fact that I am despairing! Yet never, absolutely never, does this despair totally win me over. This is in keeping with a promise, which is poeticized in the closing couplet of this sonnet:
"We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair" (2 Corinthians 4:8). What a wonderful promise. Despair cannot overcome those who are in Christ. The Gospel which we hold within us gives us a hope even in the greatest of trouble.
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