The hand

You said:
“Come to me and I will give you rest.”

But the sea trembles beneath my feet
And my midnight fear is blacker
Than churning waters or the sky above.

Lord, is it to you I stumble
Or just a ghost after all?

Inky waves climb to consume me.
Struggle fuels the water to tie its noose
Around my brittle neck.
Driving rain ignites my gasping face,
Joining the freefall of tears.

“Lord?”

A lightning stroke reveals the outstretched hand
That I never looked up to notice.