Today I am a shell.
A whisp of a person.
A husk, tossed by the gales of circumstance
from one roaring emotion
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.