The death of the broken-hearted

Who can know when a heart is dying inside?
Whose ears are open and quick enough to show up before that final heart beat?
Who has the gift to speak life back into a dying spirit?
Who can hear and wipe the tears of the broken?
Whose feet stand strong enough to pull them up from the rubble?
How do you know when it’s all about to end?
What are the signs? Who knows the symptoms?
What’s the use of friends if they can’t feel you when they’re needed most?
Who cares whether they live or die; whether they be healed or if they die of broken heartedness?
If they slip into a state of bitterness, whose love is sweet enough to make pure the water they're drowning in?
Who hears the outcry in the wilderness?
And when the mouth doesn’t speak, or the eye doesn’t drop a tear, who can hear the cry of the heart, covered beneath a decorated but doomed flesh.
Where are the shields that protect the heart from attack?
Who are the white blood cells that protect from the disease of hurt?
Where’s the salve in your hand when you touch them that cleanses and heals their wound?
Where’s the numb that guards the heart from the sting of death?
The I Am that I Am, the never leave you nor forsake you, the present help in time of need, the call me and I’ll answer, the knock on my door and I’ll open...where is HE?
I’ve heard the fame of such an one as He.

It is He that the soul dies for lack of; for it is He alone that can turn the death of the broken-hearted.

Faith D Glenn

(c) Copyright 2007