A Poem: Hope
The symbol for hope is a dove,
or slanting rays from God above.
But hope is not fragile,
or pretty,
or fine.
Hope is a weed,
a clinging vine.
Hope during struggle and strife feels like living in the darkest night.
But remember, the darkest night awakes from sleep
when the time is right.
Hope is the breath,
the beating heart,
the pulsing of the blood that continues
when you lie on the ground without the strength to rise;
If you look hard enough,
you can see it residing in downtrodden eyes.
Hope is a wish given voice;
when screamed as chorus,
listen,
don’t ignore us.
Hope resides in…
a tear of frustration sliding down your face.
a knee bent in the dirt at a loved one’s final resting place.
the scabbed over skin worn raw from shackles.
the bruised face of a fighter whose opponent he battles.
the disappointment of discovering an empty tomb; the resurrection; Jesus’ mission has been resumed.
Your hand gripped tight with mine, the future yet to be defined.
My name is Sherry. I am a budding Episcopalian with Baptist roots. The joys of my life are my husband, my family, and my work at the local library.
Ed. Note: Image from ‘The Value of Hope’ Stanford Graduate School of Business