The Thorn

Pain comes like a lightning bolt,
sharp, bright, and unforgiving.
it doesn’t ask for permission,
doesn’t knock at the door—
it kicks it in,
a demon with a blade,
jabbing, twisting,
laughing in the night.

Some days, it’s a rusty nail,
buried in the ground,
waiting for your step.
You don’t see it coming
until it’s too late—
the wound festers,
and the ache settles in,
a tenant who never leaves.

Other nights,
it’s an insect with wings,
a stinger full of venom,
buzzing, relentless.
You swat at the air,
but it finds you anyway.
it always finds you.

God, give me strength.
there are days
when the pain takes my breath,
days when it whispers
to leave my body behind,
to escape the weight
of bones and flesh
that betray me.

But you say,
“my grace is sufficient,
my power made perfect in weakness.”
so I carry this thorn,
this burden,
this daily reminder
that even in the breaking,
there is beauty—
even in the pain,
there is you.

"But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me."—2 Corinthians 12:9

© R Gordon Zyne