Real Hope

What is hope if not

a tenacious plant
that blossoms with subtle colours
on the steep and rugged cliff faces
of affliction and pain?
What is hope if not
the stubborn refusal to grant a man permission
to hurl himself down?

What is hope if not
something more than blind optimism?
What is hope if not
the unmistakeable fragrance that
will not fade
beneath the moist threat of grey clouds or
the damp smell of heavy rain?

What is hope if not
deep, deep roots
grounded and secure in
something more solid than our own fragility,
words beyond pale platitudes
laced with careless sympathy
or the chin up and the drawn-on smile?
What is hope if not
more than the false dawn
from a dark night?

Hope, real hope, is
confident expectation,
a timely gift graciously bestowed
upon the hapless and the helpless
by a faithful God
who sees the near sinking boat
and responds