How can I contain
Your perfection within
this flawed husk?
Why have You poured
so much love
into one formed from dust—
one who will return
to dirt again?
Why would You desire
to call me a friend,
when after You created me,
I bit Your hand?
And even more,
to call me kin.
I was lost,
I spoke heresy—
still, You waited;
lost in the dark,
You illuminated.
My bones are made
of lesser material,
yet You breathe in me
the spiritual—
joining the marrow,
creating a miracle.
I deny the flesh,
but cannot bear
my cross alone.
It slips and falls each day,
crushes me, rolls,
and seals the stone
that only You remove.
Yet faith grows stronger
as I obey
and You reprove.
My failures are not
failures at all—
You pick me up
each time I fall.
You whispered,
You waited;
I believed once,
then hesitated.
Now I never will again—
for falling short
was, and is,
Your way in.
May chaos mold me,
may suffering refine.
May You shine through,
and I resign.
May there be less of me
and more of You.
May I silence my voice
so Yours rings true.
May intuition
receive Your vision—
until holiness
is the only path.
Make a temple
from this pile of dust,
that will for eternity last.