They will sow wheat but reap thorns; they will wear themselves out but gain nothing. They will bear the shame of their harvest because of the Lord’s fierce anger. –Jeremiah 12:13, NIV
But his heart grieves. The heart he doesn’t care for secretly grieves.
His muscles reek of the blood, sweat, toil and tears of war. The sword he carries on his belt, crafted by the best bladesmith in the kingdom, is tainted red from the scars of war. He is covered in sans from the desert, scarred on his muscles all over. Who couldn’t see his kindling snare of his sliced face.
But his heart grieves. The heart he doesn’t seem to show every time he bends his sword grieves.
As if something burned through him, as if something pierced through him, piercing his body like an arrow or a musket. As if guilt consumed his weakling body, for his soul was the one that needed strengthening.
It was full of thorns. His life was full of thorns. And it needed light to prick them away…To prick them, slowly away.
There was so much for him to know, to grow up and to stand. He doesn’t know about telling secrets, sharing his feelings, understanding all shall pass. He only speaks through the sword, through the pain of those nunchucks flinging through the village.
Is he only ever knew that everything could change…