With Healing in His Wings

Bruises mark a heart
where hands of love once gripped tightly,
holding it close, encompassing it like a treasure.

Bruises now felt where fingers retreated,
the bruises of beauty that was,
the bruises of absence.

"Tis better to have loved," they say,
"Tis better to have loved and lost,
than never to have loved at all."*

Yet friendship freely given and then
leaves deeper wounds that if it had never been tasted.

Not through anyone's fault but love's –
for goodness can ache no less,
can break a heart no less in its own way than evil –

Not through anyone's fault but his
who hating all hearts, all loves
strikes to distort, to corrupt, to accuse.

What is left to bring healing
to gashes refusing to close,
to tears that drown all comfort?

One small dove's feather of wisdom,
like a hand relentlessly offered,
whispering, "Let Me be your all."

[*The quote in stanza three is taken from C. .]