Though fearfully and wonderfully made,
There are abscesses where my dirt is stored:
See here, the time I learnt to cry, to wade
In mud and mire, and hurt of my own accord.
Though Grace has breathed its breath in me, I still
Retain the sick fruit of Adam’s broken soil;
In pain, in guilt, in deeds of death I till
What many days will buckle at my toil.
Distorted are the instincts of my breath;
Upended are the ways I read my years.
Reorder, Grace, and open up what death
Has stultified, now brackish from these tears.
Take heart, poor soul; the future comes in flood,
Revivifies the past with mercy’s blood.