a prayer: honest poetry

my Father,

somehow I know tonight that you work in me,

even as I moan, weary of my sin disease.

I hate my flesh that loves all that is in the world;

the twin lusts and the exalting pride destroy me.

though a child of my own Father, I feel a bastard

and see the sickening resemblance of heart and mind

to the dark master in my past. I am weakness.

am I an invalid in the house of my Father?

why is victory wrung, and defeat commonplace?

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