Confession

Been going through my poetry lately.  I have a lot that I've typed up over the years and much that I haven't.  There are a couple of hundred poems littered throughout notebooks that I've kept from high school to the present.  Some are long, some are short, some are good, some are bad.  The strange thing is that I remember the circumstances surrounding the writing of each of them.  Many were written in the margins as I was taking notes for classes, seminars, sermons, and other things.  I tend to prefer doing more than one thing at once, so I'll be listening and writing simultaneously quite often - one part of my brain working on a poem, outline, etc while the other part pays attention and urges my hand to write down pertinent notes. 

This one, entitled "Confession", was written around a decade ago:

Oh this pale reflection of my withered soul

Oh this fragile communion struggling to grow

Whilst staring into the eyes of who I’ve been, what I’ve done, who I am

Stubborn and selfish, adhering to my own plans

Take these hands

Take these feet

Make them clean once again

Take the eyes and let them see

All the wonders of your hand

Oh this unholy cloak of righteousness I wear

Barren but sturdy, now showing a tear

It’s just so hard to break free of who I am

Upon my own power it is impossible to stand

Take these hands

Take these feet

Let them be made holy

Take my eyes

Take my ears

So all of my senses are driven by You only

Oh this pale reflection of my withered soul

Oh this empty heart looking for the pieces to be made whole

Who I’ve been is not who I want to be

I now look to You, to become like Thee

Take these hands

Take these feet

Let them bear the burdens you send

Take my eyes

Take my ears

This fragile body I can no longer tend