My heart it seems is slow
like Molasses screaming,
at a Steady pace of flow,
But it can't stand the unceasing scheming.
Heart’s velocity to a still,
Burning for a lasting voice,
What matters? What’s needed? What Will?
All that’s left is a choice.
Happenings—prospects, not odds,
Irregular thinking for the soul,
Surrender yourself not to gods,
But to Christ who would have you whole.
_
Friday, January 9, 2009
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