A poem about recognizing trials as God’s way
of purifying us.
by Mitch Kuhn
Why do I fear men and tremble at their call?
Why do their harsh words and scorn make me feel so small?
Why do I want to run and hide?
Why am I so terrified?
Like a snake wrapped around my chest
It squeezes the air our of my breast
I have no peace, my body is tense
I am anxious in every sense
Dear son, do know now that men are but clay?
They can only do what I say
Temporary piles of dust filled with spirits
Causing all kinds of hysterics
Like ships on the open sea
Blown and tossed about by winds sent by me
They are merely puppets on my hand
On their own they cannot stand
They boast and curse and ridicule you
With sharp tongues they run you through
Dear son, I have sent them for your good
To change you to gold and destroy the wood
To be sharpened on my lathe
In the fire must you bathe
So when I send enemies to scorn
Remember my words and blow the horn
Fear not man, they can do nothing to you
I give this understanding to very few
I am the one you must fear
Through chastening you I’ll rear
Then your house will be built on the rock
You will be one of my flock