Extracting words from a heart damaged by pain, ravaged by trauma, savaged by unending grief is daunting. and haunting. The language of all This. does not easily flow from bloody fingertips. Digging out the dark written story from the unwritten white rubble is too much to bear. one does not dare. is unable to share. the depths of the blues. with those who have not heard the roar of the water.falls in the deep. where one only weeps. in silence.

Finding words for Sorrow that hang in the air, far away from mankind, swinging to and fro. is grasping for the the Wind. without end. her hurting hands, in a darkened land, tighten into fists and come back, both of them, empty.

But Job’s poetry. Plays His music for Sorrow’s suffering soul. for her still.embering coal. Running His fingers along the keys to her heart in tune with the pain. in rhythm with the trauma. singing rhymes in time. to assuage her grief. Lifting the ancient smoke-colored leaf. from the rubble of the dark.night Cavity. To reveal Depravity. for her un.written by the black ebony of His humility in the midst of the white ivory of His majesty.

Sorrow yearns for a soft-spoken Word. In a language all her own. That sings with the white pings and the black pangs of her pain.

Only The Ancient written. black on white. Art. whispers properly a Word for a silent.ed heart. cast far away from mankind. where few can find. hanging in the air. on nothing. swinging to and fro. with no prose.

Yes, Job. with His Poetry. so costly. now free. written by His white.silver bar.scars. in the midst of His dark and healed.hands. still.moving in this land. baring His pain. He strains. for we. in the hours of our mourning. still. small. and wee. To bring a Word for a New Tomorrow. With The Language of Sorrow.

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