my compass needle spins on the wavering breath
of fickle emotions and fluctuant praise
wrestling the gravity of doubt’s elusive death
and settling in pity’s pasture to graze
with a satchel of bricks between my shoulder blades
the guilty stones of my own making
i tread, reluctant, as my soul Hope raids
my resistance the Word ever shaking
how heavy the eyelids, how stubborn the drum
of my existence to clutch dirt for peace
when His cloak of grace envelops this scum
begging my wandering to cease
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