The doctor said I’ll never be 100%,
my broken clavicle holding me back,
slowing me down–can’t raise
my arms, my hands, can’t lift
as much, but God,
I can still raise my hands to you
palms open, waiting
for you to take them, biceps
lifted clear of fallen sleeves,
fingers pointing at your glory.
I can still write my praises of you
eyes closed and fingers tapping
in time to your music, elbows
resting on the chair you gave me,
worship appearing on the screen.
I can still stamp my feet for you,
each beat a prayer entering the floor,
heels bouncing while your strength
helps me stand. I dance
my praise for your name.
I’m not 100%, I’m 150.
And if I have to hold the bone
to lift my arm, I will. If I
must sit to rest, I shall,
but I’ll always rise again to you.