Brittle bones that cannot heal.
Come inside and make a meal
Of wine that flows from valleys green
And water from eternal streams;
Of bread that truly eases pain,
Meat from a body that was slain.
Metaphor that makes me squirm.
Only He can root that worm
Of fear and death out from my soul.
And He can make me whole.
My soul is heavy, faint today
For those I just met yesterday;
For my own brokenness;
For those souls that are a wreck.
I want a heart whose love is quick
But tongue that’s patient, slow to speak.
Give me willing hands to heal,
Empathy to love and feel
Their heartaches as if they’re mine.
You can make them thine.