The Gospel Of Job

My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?

Uproot my hope like a tree?

… Then the LORD answered Job

In his suffering, blue, robe

The earth sings, the heart rings

and Heaven answers.

My pain became so large that it no longer fit inside of me, so it poured from my lips. And from my fingertips. But the swirling airs could not carry my cares. The blank page would not endure my rage. And my pain refused to be contained. Inside of things, like crowded shopping malls and empty whiskey glasses. Upon eagle’s wings. No, my pain I could not displace. Within a flower vase. This deluge overcame our big house of refuge. Could not be buoyed by such a small island of joy. It just came to destroy. Shipwreck my faith’s ship. And my relation.ships. With family and friends. Because it had no end. And I do not mend.

This heart, that has been made still, still rends.

My soul has been ravaged. And savaged. My faith rolled up like a scroll. All This. Has taken it’s toll. I’ve nothing left with which to pay. For This day. Of my daily bread.

I am no longer fed

by the gospel of Matthew and Mark and Luke. And John. Does not turn me back around. They can not reach the depths of the seas that rage inside of me.

But

Job’s Poetry.

His stain of disdain, written in words of red. The Gospel, bled. From His humanity pores all the way to my forsaken shores. From his grace covered lips. By His Fingertips. This. Job’s. His. Mine. Our language, baring pain, combine. To bear my pain. Despite and to spite my strain

I have been led into the cold damp dark mines of the Gospel of Job

And I will be brought out, like Job, gold

©2018 Jeanne Whitman all rights reserved