Return to the fortress, you prisoners of hope; even now I announce that I will restore twice as much to you.
I am a prisoner of hope.
Hope does not set me free; it binds me to the hard places, to the dry places, watching and waiting for the bud to blossom, for the river to run, for the promises of God to become a present reality.
Sometimes, I wish that God would release me: allow me to wallow in self-pity; to throw up my hands in despair and declare, “There is nothing to be done!”
Yet hope catches the lie between my lips and counters,
“Just wait and see what God can do.”
Keep me grounded, God,
even in those places that seem scorched and inhospitable;
when then are no short cuts – no way round –
just a hard way across the wilderness
hoping, praying, begging,
for Your restoration to break through.