Sometimes when the heart-load is heavy
And burdens are grievously borne.
My shoulders stoop and my spirit.
Turns, painfully, inward… to mourn.
Things incomprehensible just seem
To grow larger and broader in scope.
The devil is there. He embezzles
My moments, good memories and hope.
The question, I know, is the wrong one.
From the darkness, I will myself free.
It’s the wrong one, but finally I whisper.
What have I done, Lord? Why me?
Then from the din of the voices
That call in the tumult of loss,
For more labor, more hurt, more investments
I hear one small voice from the cross.
“It is finished.” He said from Golgotha
Through parched lips and in that last heave.
He finished for me, a way forward
Salvation! Redemption. Reprieve.
My hands have never been nail-pierced
My back is not bleeding for grace
To people who’ve mocked and reviled me
No one’s ever spat in my face.
He didn’t just do it. He planned it.
The Word became Son for my soul.
He poured out himself in submission
So I could be blameless and whole.
The question’s the right one, reflecting
On hope, as He’s made mine to be.
I ponder such grace, and I whisper.
What have I done, Lord? Why me?