Beneath the mountains, I stood,
a vessel of silent strength,
my soul murmuring through valleys of pain,
where the winds weave tales,
taunting, stripping the weight of shame.
I embrace the pride of the breast
I’ve cloaked for years,
a heartbeat, a resurrection,
echoing the stories of buried agony,
the belly cradling fervent silence,
now trembling with the weight of truth.
Oh, how I stand,
unyielding in this nakedness,
cleansed by the rawness of being,
my body sprawled across the cross,
where light breaks, shimmering
in the depths of my darkness.
I hear them—a chorus of scars,
voices stitched with sorrow,
who breathes in this moment of despair?
Who quakes beneath the burdens,
striking their heads against the hard stone?
I am here, at the cross.
I am the woman at the cross,
bearing the privilege of raw tears,
crying with the confidence of one who knows,
listening to the heartbeat above,
resting my weary head at its feet,
surrendering all, saying,
let your will be done.
