Where does my help come from?

I am weak.

Despising my frailty, I strive to overcome and endure. Ignoring limitations and refusing to concede to failure I press on. Determined. Focused. Flawed.

How do I end up here? At the bottom of this pit? My face pressed to the floor, gasping for air and clawing at the bars which have constrained me for so long.

My voice is reduced to a frantic whisper, a choking, sobbing plea for salvation.

No one listens. No one hears.

Mindless platitudes and fragments of Scripture echo through my memory offering reminders of faith and of hope. All I see are chains. Bars. Unattainable goals.

My Creator seems so far away, His voice silent. His presence achingly absent. His touch only a vague impression.

I am alone. In this misery I have created.

Only Grace can save me. Only Mercy can lift me up. In His time, in His way, He will hear me and I will be remade.

How long, O Lord? How long?