Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
A failed marriage is not the end,
It’s not the closing of your days,
Not the burial of who you are,
Just a turn along life’s ways.
What broke was a chapter, not the book,
What ended was a season, not you,
There are still years God set aside,
Quietly waiting to unfold too.
Do not rush your healing heart,
Walk gently through the pain you knew,
Some lessons bloom only in time,
Some strength grows slow, but true.
There are more faces yet to meet,
More hands your own may come to know,
And somewhere, love may be ahead,
Soft-footed, moving slow.
So keep walking—do not run,
Let hope keep pace with breath and feet,
For happiness has its own way
Of finding souls it’s meant to meet.
You are still whole, still becoming,
Still written in tomorrow’s plan,
What ended did not finish you—
It only proved how strong you stand.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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