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...
Do not measure your steps by another’s stride,
Your road was never meant to match theirs.
Destiny writes in different ink for every soul,
And comparison only blurs your own name.
Accept who you are, unfinished, becoming,
Exactly where grace placed you today.
Follow the road beneath your feet;
It knows you better than borrowed paths.
God has something stored in your tomorrows,
pages turning with each rising sun.
Though the words are written ahead of time,
Every day reads new, untouched, alive.
One day you will pause and smile,
seeing how the chapters found their place,
how the delays, bends, and waiting
were shaping a story worth keeping.
And gratitude will sit at your table daily,
not as a habit, but as nourishment
for when you trust your own unfolding,
Thankfulness becomes your daily meal.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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