This Cup

“Dear God.”

Muttered low, under angry breath.

“My arms are tired.”

Once they didn’t feel it so

And weariness was a good day’s end.

Today, I’m ready to nap by noon.

My world is heavy.

So heavy I forgot Easter was coming.

“Dear Jesus, I’m sorry.”

I feel His gaze, tho’ His face is shadowed.

“Child, I know your weariness.”

His eyes pierce, but gently.

“But I don’t know why.”

I frown, as if He speaks nonsense.

“God,” I inform Him, “You know everything.

Just tell me how to be stronger.”

He seems puzzled, almost amused.

“My arms were tired too.”

His words pierce, but gently.

“Holding pain. Death. Sin. Yours and theirs.

“Holding everyone and everything. Holding up the World.

I’ve felt what you feel.”

And so much more, I remember now, but my selfish self still cries:

“Take it away!”

Avoiding his gaze, expecting disappointment.

But, again, His eyes draw me in.

“I did. I took it away. But you keep taking it back.”

I feel the first tear, look down in surprise,

And finally, I kneel.

Shaking with an old, new joy.

A laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside

As I drop my world back into his wounded hands.

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a speculative fiction blog

R. C. Svendsen

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