I Cannot Move

O God,

my hands ache,

arthritic.

The cold winter air saps my strength.

It is a bitter reflection of my heart in the night.

Darkness and weight come upon me.

The demons provoke:

“What could have been.”

Yet even this does not pierce

as deeply as the fatigue,

the loss of spiritual agility.

You say,

“Come to Me,

all who are heavy burdened,

and I will give you rest.”

I cannot move.

Let the prayers of my friends

carry me to You.

But better:

Come, Lord Jesus.

Place Your hand upon the bier.