I am scarred with hesitation marks.
I have to die to myself, and so I keep trying. But my will to live keeps winning.
This time, I close my eyes and determine to slice through my wrists.
Breathing hard and gritting my teeth, I go for it. This is right. I must die so He can live.
But again, something stops me and I leave only another nick in my skin. My will to live is strong. My will is strong.

These nicks are ugly. I am left alive and scarred. If I must live, I will need plastic surgery. Much easier.
Why can others do this and I can’t? I sit in silence and stare at the floor.
I tell Him I’m sorry that I cannot do it. I pretend the effort is enough, but I know it’s not true.
I cannot find the strength to overpower my own self.
Whispering defeat, I throw down the knife. It is hopeless. Each time I create more scar tissue, and it is tougher to cut.

He picks up the knife and puts it in my hand. He covers my hand with His and I feel the strength in it.
The slice is deep, complete and precise. In glorious light, He finally lives. I cry, at first from the pain and then from the beautiful release. It is finished.

I fall down, and through my shaking voice I cannot find the words to thank Him.
He lifts my head and looks at me, penetrating my being with His eyes. He speaks and my soul drinks deeply.
His voice is deep and strong as he says, “Same time tomorrow?”