Thursday, December 22, 2005

A poem, not my own

Some of us walk into Advent
tethered to our unresolved yesterdays
the pain still stabbing; the hurt still throbbing.
It’s not that we don’t know better;
it’s just that we can’t stand up anymore by ourselves.
Dearest Lord, On the way to Bethlehem, will you give us a hand?
-- Anne Weems

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