Deborah Seale Poet Rhyme

The Refining Dark

You call Him a God of pain, a master of a cruel terrain,

But how else does a sleeping soul break its heavy mortal chain?

If the world were only comfort, a soft and endless sleep,

We would never look inside ourselves, nor ever climb the steep.

You say He stands aloof and high, ignoring every tear and cry,

While forcing helpless, fragile things to bow beneath His sky.

He is a loving Father, guiding heirs through shifting sands,

Our training is the molding of His patient, tender hands.

But look closer at the "True Sons" and the paths of thorns they trod—

It was not a cosmic punishment, but the wounding of a God

Who bleeds within the creation, who shares the heavy weight,

Not a tyrant on a distant throne deciding human fate.

The illusion is a heavy fog, the fray is fierce and blind,

But the pressure of the dark is what refines the human mind.

He does not demand perfection from the lost who weep and pray,

But the cracks inside our broken hearts let the light illuminate the way.

For love is not a gentle sun that keeps us safe from harm,

Sometimes it is the winter wind that wakes us to the dawn.

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