Yet we close
our hearts to the man
who cuts us off driving
or sits in our seat.
And we close up the access
and passage to remorse
when the sins of our fathers
still fester in minds:
the servant who casts
his debtor into
the prison from which
he too had been freed.
Father, forgive.
Our hearts bear our grievances,
medals of pride
and stones built inside.
Jesus, reteach
our grudge-bearing fists
to open themselves
in Your jubilee.
The Consolations of Writing 