I was fed up with God. He wasn’t there

Or had forgotten me, or did not care,

Left me alone

To struggle hopelessly

‘gainst odds too great for me –

my heart was stone.

 

And young people talked about him far too much,

Young people, who were strong, and should be gay.

Wait till they knew disease’s deadly touch’

They’d see things in a very different way.

 

And earnest people came each Sunday night

To take a service; circumspect and right

In all they said. They had their souls to keep –

And ours as well, presumably – lost sheep.

 

I hated everyone, I couldn’t pray.

Hated myself, and couldn’t get away –

No, no escape whichever way I turned.

But must have made some movement tiny weak

Towards where God had been,

And it was seen –

Help came immediately!

 

Dear Christ, I know depression may return

And things get harder as my life goes on;

Deeper black hells be there to penetrate,

Long times when I can only sit and wait.

And yet, I trust, and yet –

Next time, I’ll read these lines and not forget.

 

Dorothy Smith, Bromley, (c.1950), after six months of deep depression (in fear that she was losing permanently the use of her right hand).