The stained-glass sun on Sundays gleamed,
A holy light, or so it seemed.
He preached of faith with fervent breath,
But in his heart, a quiet death.
His first true love, a fragile vine,
Had withered, lost, a shattered sign
That even faith could not make whole,
The broken fragments of a soul.
He spoke of grace, a gentle flood,
While in his veins ran bitter blood.
He counseled others, "Let it go,"
A seed of truth he could not sow.
The pulpit felt a lonely stage,
A gilded, unforgiving cage.
He prayed for strength, a peaceful art,
To mend the fissures in his heart.
Then in his prayers, a whisper came,
Not searing hurt or burning shame,
But quiet peace, a simple sound,
On holy, humble, hallowed ground.
He saw her face, not with the pain
Of endless loss and falling rain,
But with the love he once had known,
A love that truly was his own.
Forgiveness was the key he sought,
A battle he had bravely fought.
Not for her sake, but for his own,
To find the strength to stand alone.
He let the anger, grief, and fear,
Dissolve like teardrops, crystal clear.
He chose to love without the cost,
The one he thought his heart had lost.
And as he spoke from that same place,
His words were filled with honest grace.
Not learned by rote, or dry as dust,
But born of a renewed trust.
He understood the sacred art
Of mending a despairing heart,
For in his pain, a lesson lay,
That lit his path and showed the way.
He found that love, when truly free,
Is not about a you and me,
But is a gift you give to all,
Answering every weary call.
His first love's memory, once a dart,
Became a compass for his heart.
Forgiveness taught his soul to bend,
And love became his truest friend. ©
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE"
Written for any minister in pain over the lose of your first live.