What MS Does To Me, a poem of realness and hope

Written 8-22-12, Anna Olson

 

My fingers get so tired, doing what I want to.  What else, then, can I do?  I think I’ll run to you.

No piano or pen can I hold or play.  What then, can my heart say?  I think I’ll simply pray.

 

I’m running only figuratively for all know I can’t be literal.

But I can look to you and see your hand, if only in my peripheral.

You, Lord, are my strength, my portion, my mineral.

You lift me up, this I know; it’s scriptural.

 

My body is exhausted, walking and doing what I must.  Where then, can I find gust? I think I’ll trust.

No distance can I go without struggle.  Where then, can I scuttle?  I think I’ll be humble.

 

I trust you with my life as much as I’m able.

Sometimes I take back, but you, Lord, are stable.

I seek your truth, which is much more than a fable.

It is you why I keep going; you’re my power cable.

 

I am so scared, for unpredictable is this disease.  Who then, can relieve?  I’ll always believe.

Nothing of my body can I know what is to come.  Who then, knows all and then some?  I’ll always succumb.

 

I hold fast to you, Lord, for you are perfect in all your ways.

My God, you are so good and me you always amaze.

I will raise your name above all else for all of my days.

I live to glorify you, Father, and to bring you praise.

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