What if my words could be seen on your skin?
Would I consider them more?
Carefully, tenderly picking just the right one.
For you.
Feeling the weight of each syllable heavy on my pregnant tongue.
Ready, to bring life.
A gift.
Each word a balm of hope on your tired, sun-scorched heart.
Or, not.
The choice is mine.
At times I forget.
I refuse to see the reflection of Jesus on your face.
I pick my words like stones off the sin-stained ground.
Weighing them one-by-one.
Choosing just the right one.
To break
you.
To mock
you.
To bind your tired, sun-scorched heart in chains
that might, in time, prove unbreakable.
Such power they hold.
Every word.
Life, or death
on my tongue.
And your heart
in my hands.
Your life
a fragile bird,
struggling.
Within my power to free, or to crush.
Proverbs 18:21
© 2017. Liezel Graham. All rights reserved.
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