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...
Life descends upon me
as if my name carries a hidden indictment,
a sin whispered into the marrow of my being
Before I learned how to stand.
Each dawn arrives already sharpened,
prepared to wound without explanation.
There is a secret ache lodged within me,
a quiet inhabitant of flesh and bone.
It burrows deeper with each passing day,
unbaptized by mercy,
teaching my body the vocabulary of suffering
one pulse at a time.
I ask why until the word thins to breath.
It rises toward Heaven,
only to fall back upon my chest,
unanswered,
as though the sky has chosen silence
as its final language.
My prayers gather like unsent confessions,
stacked at the altar of waiting.
I kneel daily, voice frayed,
wondering if God is listening
Or if faith is simply learning
How to endure being unheard.
Still, I do not abandon the floor of prayer.
Hope limps, but it remains.
My soul stays open,
not from strength,
but from exhaustion that refuses to die.
I ask now only for mercy
not clarity.
For healing
not absolution.
For ease
a gentler weight upon my days.
And if You hear me, God,
let this be enough:
to soften what hurts,
to steady what trembles,
and to grant me the grace
to survive this life
without losing myself.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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