The darkness, in its swallow-grip
That holds her underneath the waves
And that would, she should know, consume
But for the reaching hand that saves

To grasp that hand, she must perceive
A light that sears her swollen eyes
The pain so great, that she would wish
To turn and choose her own demise

But oh that hand! That burning light!
That will not let her sink to death
But rather scorch the hateful dark
That steals away her sobbing breath

A soft caress upon her eyes
That tells her she can bear the sight
And, undeserved, a rising hope
To join, and live, and breathe the light!

To be! To live a purpose grand
To break free of the leaded tie
To dance amidst the storm, and laugh
At feeble death. In Him, to fly!

– s. Clark