I held the rock in my hand —
the one I had dug out of sand,
and I threw it hard at the wall.
The damage was great, but my impact small.
The rock that I had found,
after hitting the wall it fell straight to the ground,
so I picked it up, threw it once more,
but it fell even quicker it seemed to the floor.
With all the pity and disappointment I felt inside,
behind all the mistakes and failures I tried to hide.
I picked up that rock and threw it again,
had it hurling with all my guilt, doubts and sin.
And that rock hit the wall with so much force.
Not daring to leave its place and veer off course.
It dared not fall down to the floor.
Instead it remained in the wall — in its core.
I just looked at my rock and sighed,
realized the worst part of me had gone and died.
It went away when I threw my rock,
abolished everything that stood as a block.
My rock was my burden that held me back,
made me aware of all the strength I lacked.
Yet it was I who buried it from under the sand,
the one who allowed it to be held in my hand.
I went looking for it, poor me.
But I rid myself of it, became free,
walked up to the wall and saw the hole,
realized I was looking into my own soul.
Freed of my rock and my bondage too.
It was able to see all that I could do.
This wasn’t about me but something much more.
There was a world out there that was sore.