Wounded Alleluia
Saying, praying and living when the living gets tough
A Wounded Alleluia is perhaps, the universal song that every human being sings at sometime in their lives. Just this week, dear friends wrote us that their six year old granddaughter was just diagnosed with a life threatening cancer. My morning alleluias of walking in my garden, watching my flowers grow and listening to the mountain birds sing their praise, got broken.
Earlier this week, I shared time with a friend who lamented over his son’s sudden release from his job and that this vocational wilderness of job hunting has now been months and months. A wounded alleluia.
Maybe you, like me, watched Noah Lyles, the fastest human being on the earth right now run the Olympic race of his life in the 200 meter race. He was the crowd favorite. He was his own favorite and fun to watch and pull for him. But he lost. He came in third place. A wounded alleluia. But wait, there’s more. After the race, he shared he had COVID. He ran the race with COVID and still came in as the third fastest human on the planet in the 200 meter race. A broken and a wounded alleluia. How could COVID disrupt this healthy man’s quest, life long dream and amazing effort and training? A wounded alleluia indeed!
If you live long enough, then somehow, your alleluias will be wounded. By wounded I mean, not said with as much “umph”—not as much resound in your voice—not as much confidence, perhaps as you once prayed or sang or lived.
All along the pathway of life, wounded alleluias are heard, sung, prayed and lived. Like those old characters in the pages of Scriptures, they all seemed to try to live an alleluia but somewhere in the pathway, something happened and life did not work—maybe God did not work the way they thought. Perhaps, some disillusionment fostered an internal and privately held wounded alleluia. Disillusionment, a slight depression, a heart break—all break and wound the alleluias of our souls.
That is the definition of a wounded alleluia—that life has taken a turn and the turn is different from what you wanted, needed or thought would happen. A wounded alleluia is a disruption to life—an uninvited and unwanted disruption that changes the course of the river that flows in your heart. The river still flows…but in a different way—a way you never expected or imagined. But it happened and you still, somehow, say, alleluia even though there is a wound in the saying those four syllables of the soul.
Here’s the thing though. People who have been dealt a blow who know the language of alleluia, will still muster the courage—converge the mind with the heart and still say their “Alleluias.” They do. We do. I do.
We don’t turn our backs. We don’t seal our lips. We don’t quit asking, seeking or begging. We don’t. Though wounded and weak by the news we’ve just heard, we still say our alleluias. It is our own human effort to keep acknowledging that we are not the main character in our own stories as much as we’d like, at times, to think we are. There is this Other—this One—this Being that we keep saying those alleluias to no matter now hard it gets—it is. Wounded alleluias will always be spoken because we are all wounded in some way.
I still say my own wounded alleluias. Every day—and I mean every single day, both Gwen and I turn to each other and speak out our wounded alleluias to find ONE thing we can be grateful for in this very day. It is the one way, we come together—not in woundedness but in wounded alleluias and that is a difference that keeps us sane and has kept us together.
As I write this, I am thinking of my friend Doug who is now in the fight for his life up in the mid-west. I am thinking of my friend Shane who is in the fight for his life in Texas. My friend, Sam, just lost his wife a few weeks ago. He’s a widower now. Goodness, a very, very broken alleluia for you, dear Sam! I am thinking of one grandchild, in particular that I hold dearly in my heart in a special way. Why? Because he has a broken Alleluia with learning disabilities. It goes on. I’m sure—yes, I’m sure your broken alleluias go on as well.
The spiritual life is not about being protected from the wounds. Surely, we see this in the very essence of the life of Jesus, himself. Wounded he was—even though he did not want to be wounded and prayed to God that God would spare him. But he was not spared from wounds and we will not be either. We are humbled by them—very humbled by them. We are more prone to kneel in prayer when we are wounded, aren’t we. Perhaps, this might give a hint of why wounds might happen.
The posture of a heart that speaks the wounded alleluia is noticed by God—perhaps cherished even. Aren’t we told, God draws near to the broken hearted—to the one who stands after kneeling to say, sing and live their wounded alleluias.
My new poem, “Wounded Alleluias” reflects my own journey of saying “Wounded alleluias” through the stages and phases of my life. I read this poem yesterday at lunch to my dear friend and when I lifted up from reading it and saw my friend’s face, there were tears in his eyes. He heard the poem and somehow this very poem lanced his tear ducts and gave a release to his heart.
As a young poet at heart, his tears were the only proof I needed that the poem worked. He tears proved to me that my own wounded alleluias are universal—and this is what any poet is trying to do—to write in a way that is universal—a simple ,yet profound way that everyone can “get” and understand. And as an emerging poet, that is the question that a poet chews on: Does this “THING” actually work?
Friends, it’s my hope that this particular poem might resonate deeply with you in some way. If you like it, would you consider sharing it? I’m making this Substack available to everyone in the hope that we might be the “together” that I refer to in the last stanza of this poem. Together, we can say, sing and live our wounded alleluia today and every day that we have breath.
Wounded Alleluia by Stephen W. Smith All I have is a wounded alleluia. My soul is cast down within me. Much, yes, much seems wrong. I have cannot find the way or see. Everywhere around me there is pain. I feel breathless to help or offer hope. Weariness, yes, profound tiredness is what I feel. I only have a wounded alleluia to cope. So alleluia, alleluia—yes, alleluia. I will rise up and say what I know is true—alleluia. I am not free to sing your song. In this valley, I do not belong. When there is so much wrong, Yet, I can only sing an alleluia. My soul is dry and my heart feels closed. Only tears do I know this long dark day. Any more bad news and I will cave in. I see no light and hand to find your way. So alleluia, alleluia—yes, alleluia. I will rise up and say what I know is true—alleluia. If there is praise to give, Then make my heart soar again. Till that time, I kneel and say, Alleluia. Once more in the dark before a needed dawn. So alleluia, alleluia—yes, alleluia. I will rise up and say what I know is true—alleluia. Two is better than being alone. So, join me and together we will sing A wounded alleluia. A broken alleluia. So, Alleluia, Alleluia—yes, Alleluia.
Singing with you. ❤️
Wounded Alleluia. What a beautiful description of the tension we feel as we walk through this broken life yet in step with our loving God and His creation.