My hands are raised. My glance is straight. My feet are not separated. I can not see what’s ahead of me, instead only where I have been.  I can not touch the sky above me, but I can fall to the ground and hurt. I can cradle and rock forth to and fro and ask myself why I am bent. I can ask myself why I am twisted. Then, I can look up to the heavens that I was trying to reach, trying to feel, trying to find; and once again remember that my hands are still raised.

 My elbows shake, my arms give way. There is nothing in them, no strength. Waterfalls flood my eyes but waves of tears can not touch the ground. Shallow wisps of air from my lungs cease still, non-existent; and yet I am still breathing. My hair is brittle like straw. My skin is rough and stained. My voice is limited by nature, or by thought, or by emotions and often times I forget- truly forget…. that I am beautiful.

 However my heart might ache, I am at peace. However I might physically fail, I am healthy. However I hunger and however I thirst I am well fed and well quenched. Though clearly I was born a failure I will absolutely not die one. I will not live like one. There is a clear road paved before me. I am climbing a rose but I know I must pass through thorns before I can reach the petals.

 There is this dress that I love to wear. It is the most beautiful given to me. It is the whitest ever made. It reflects who I am when righteous eyes look at me. Finer than silk it was made. Often it is the hardest to keep. The dress is easy to stain. But I devote my life to having it cleansed so that it shines as bright when judgment passes over me. When it is like this then I am a step closer to the heavens. But when it is wrinkled and when it is stained, I fall to the ground and hurt. I rock forth to and fro and ask myself why I am bent. That is where stains come from. They come from error. They come from lies. They come from hypocrisy. They come from theft… ranging from disobediance to raised hands that strike.