A frail thing am I,
Fraught, I am, with selfish desire,
Uncertainty, and pride.
With greedy aspirations have I fashioned my own funeral pyre -
But with His graceful hand has He turned the tide.
Frail though I am,
He sought me, pursued me,
Never yielding, though I ran and ran.
I fought, but my body gave out, my legs grew weary.
And I collapsed, bone-tired, into His strong, waiting arms -
And never was the same.
written june the eighth, two-thousand and ten
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