The stubborn voice in the pit of my soul never leaves me.
Quiet for days, it suddenly springs, strangling me with sobs while I hang out the washing.
I draw the stinging, slicing sword of your Spirit,
desperately thrusting in defence,
"You created my inmost being, You knit me together in my mother's womb".
"Why?" asks the voice from the pit, louder than my own.
"Why did You bother?"
"If You knew my thoughts, if You saw all my days before they came to be,
why did You make me at all?
You saw this day didn't You?
What a waste of time that turned out to be.
The omnipotent, magnificent creator of the universe
was apparently concerned enough to make me for this day?
And the next? And the next?
Would anyone have had a worse life if I wasn't here at all?
Was there any point to using up precious resources to give me a brain,
a heart, a body?
I've made a list actually,
of things You could've spent Your time doing.
Better things, that would've been worth it.
Things that would reverse the desperation and decay on this planet.
Things that would help people recognise and worship you.
Just a few small things,
that would've cost as much effort,
but saved a whole lot of pain."
"You go before me and you follow me. You place Your hand of blessing on my head."
I parry, to no avail.
"I wish I could sink away into the miry depths,
and never be,
and never have been.
That would've been the better plan.
That would've been the fitting thing."