When God Wounds the Heart, Hell Comes Sniffing

The hand of God is on me, heavy, unyielding.

Not cruel, but crushing in its love.

He has opened something in me I cannot close.

A wound that bleeds longing.

A wound that makes every breath ache for Him.

I feel my poverty like exposed nerve, raw, throbbing, alive.

And in this cracked-open place, when I am soft and trembling before Him,

the demons come like dogs to blood.

They know where He touched me.

They smell grace like a wound.

They circle, patient, hungry.

I do not fear the isolation; it’s almost a friend now.

I fear the enemy that twists grace into self-concern,

the whispers that turn longing into self-scrutiny,

the way a holy wound can become a pit of endless thought if I look at me

instead of Him.

They come like shadows, fast and constant:

accusing, confusing, agitating.

Pour out Your anger upon them,

let the heat of Your fury overtake them.

Let their camp be left desolate,

let no one dwell in their tents.

Yes, let it burn.

Let God break their teeth.

Let their tents rot in a wasteland.

They persecute the very one He wounded.

They increase the pain of what He opened in love.

And I cry, not gentle prayers, not tidy petitions,

but from the gut:

God, destroy the thoughts that tear at me.

Let Your fury scatter what claws and confuses.

Do not let what You began in me be consumed by hell.

May the angels stand like iron around the place You cut open.

May silence become a fortress.

May every thought that turns inward be shattered like pottery against rock.

This isn’t piety; it is survival.

A man clinging to God with bleeding hands.

A heart that wants only Him

while the enemy snarls at its edges.

And yet beneath the fear, beneath the torment,

there is a fierce knowing, a deep, stubborn truth:

You would not wound me if You did not intend to claim me.

You would not open my heart unless You mean to fill it.

So let the demons rage.

Let them stalk around grace like scavengers.

Let them taste nothing but the dust beneath His feet.

Burn their tents.

Break their ranks.

Guard the wound You made.

And if I shake, if I tremble under the weight of Your hand,

let the trembling itself be prayer.

Let the wound bleed into Your heart.

For I am Yours

and even the enemy knows it.