I Will Not Let Go

Night bends low,
wrapping its arms around the river,
a hush thick as the weight of old prayers.
The air is tight with waiting,
with the breath of a man
who has come too far to turn back.

He is alone, yet not alone.

From the dark, a hand finds him,
not in greeting, not in comfort,
but in a grip that does not yield.
They crash into the dust,
limbs locked in a battle older than time.
This is no thief, no stranger,
this is the wrestling of the unseen,
the struggle between who he was
and who he must become.

The night stretches long,
each moment an eternity,
each breath a question.
Still, he holds on,
his fingers curled around the mystery,
his ribs aching beneath the press of destiny.

"Let me go, for the dawn is breaking."

But what is dawn to a man
who has spent his life running?
What is morning to a soul
that has never known its own name?
No, he will not release the struggle,
not until the blessing comes,
not until the fight births something new.

"I will not let go unless You bless me."

And so, the night marks him,
wounds him, names him,
Israel, the one who has wrestled
and still stands.
The river sings of the battle,
the earth remembers the weight of his steps.

And as the sun rises,
he walks forward, limping,
not as a man undone,
but as one who has seen God
and lived.

– Genesis 32:26

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