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To heal a hate
takes grace
that isn't. There
is churning hurt
and bitterness
-and black despair.
No love. No grace.
No power to choose.
I heard a stillness.
Then
I felt His face.
His searching eyes
held mine
and would not turn me loose.
Then through hot tears
I saw and understood:
He hung cross high,
a spear was in my hand
that dripped with blood,
a helmet on my head.
I watched Him die;
but just before, He said,
"Forgive them for
they know not what
they do. . ."
then He was dead.
Slowly I raised my head:
the clouds were unarranged,
the sky was fair,
the warm sun shone,
nothing had changed:
the hurt still there
only . . .
the hate was gone.
--Ruth Bell Graham