Rough terrain and jagged barbs
leave her doubting that the love
she desperately desires
will ever grow in her heart, in her deeds.

Thistles and thorns, thick briars,
her mind and heart
a wild hedge of judgments,
barriers to what love could be.

She wonders why she is lonely,
why the hollow canyon of her life
catches only brief slants of sunlight,
knows so few glimpses of green.

“Go toward that which repels,”
cries the deeper self.
“Accept limitations, move bravely”
whispers the quiet voice of the soul.

(My Soul Feels Lean, © Joyce Rupp. Sorin Books.)


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by Joyce.