Today I am a shell.

A whisp of a person.

A husk, tossed by the gales of circumstance

from one roaring emotion

to another.

The things I should desire, the God I should pursue, are exhausting to approach.

Though I pray for heart change,

the organ pumps wearily along the same grooved path

without swerve, bump, or list.

Forgive me, God, how I fail you in heart,

in speech, in motive, in mind.

How poisoned am I by the opiates of works-based "pride-ology."

I am always rejecting your freely given, swift lift

in lieu of the impossible climb to your side.

How can I be worth saving? I am not.

How can I be worth loving? I am not.

You offer peace and safety,

redemption to the slave, and life to the corpse,

but oh how the corpse holds fast to its shell

even in death.