There’s a sickness
that lives inside.
It doesn’t only want
to gain wisdom,
but to be
known as wise—
the quiet defilement
of humility denied.
I catch myself
on the edge
of this descent
far too often.
By some miracle,
I pray my awareness softens
what I deserve—
and after repentance,
that it does not return.
Yet here I am again,
holding hands with pride
as if it were my friend,
wounding my true companions.
For they could see
that I made myself a fool.
I opened my mouth,
though my eyes
were covered with wool.
The blood rushed
to my head,
and instead of pride,
anger erupted in its stead.
Is this innate,
or simply what I’ve fed?
Is it too late,
or have I made my bed?
No—this cannot be true.
Because though I slip,
I return to You.
Though my words defile,
You still renew.
The shame of the past
glorifies the sanctified present.
Sin rose ten times,
but my knee bent eleven.
My flaws reveal
what You refine;
the fire is quenched
by Bread and Wine,
the Word and Spirit intertwined—
and quickly they remind
that I was never created equal
to the Divine.
And through my weakness
is how I find
that the need for salvation
required seeing the fault
to which my will inclined.
And though I see it again,
I know now—willpower
is not a friend.
For only refuge
in my High Tower
removes the cancer
and brings
my miserable self-reliance
to an end.