Where does my help come from?

I am weak.

Despising frailty, I strive to overcome and endure. Ignoring limitations and refusing to concede to failure I press on. Determined. Focused. Flawed.

How did I end up here at the bottom of this pit? My face is pressed to the floor, I am gasping for air and clawing at bars which have constrained me far too long.

My voice is reduced to a frantic whisper, a choking, sobbing plea for salvation.

No one listens. No one hears.

Mindless platitudes and fragments of Scripture echo from memory incoherently offering reminders of faith and of hope. But all I can see are chains. Bars. Unattainable goals.

My Creator seems so far away, His voice silent. His presence achingly absent. His touch only a vague impression.

I am alone. Isolated in this misery I have created.

Only Grace can save me. Only Mercy can lift me up. In His time, in His way, He will hear me and I will be remade.

How long, O Lord? How long?