my rotting heart by pb Hill

Lord, please, forgive my rotting heart, Spoiled and moldy with flesh-wasting. My rotting heart seeks not Your desires Just a simple, creature self-gratification. It pursues and stalks satisfaction. Finding none. Ever. Yet relentless it remains. My spirit whimpers a secret unction, Then it urges a view of a bleeding tree. The glowing center is fading in the evening light As it faces a darkness wholly terrifying. (A milieu where even shadows fear the hidden.) Yet that little ember carries a weapon, Mighty enough to bring land from water (And dust the oceans off a single grain of sand). My rotting heart cannot rise above the dirt. This clay chases after more debris. My silent spirit sighs in dissatisfaction, Lingering in the heavy gravity, Longing to lift to the Heavens on high. A solitary One can breach the chasm To quench the parched tongue beyond. A single spark from the bloodied dogwood remains. Still it's enough to span the horizon And ignite fires quick as a pentecost. Ghosts spill from the miserable bleak As a universe centers around the Son. Ultimately this resuscitates my mildewed chambers, Renewing them with a breath from Life. My rotting heart is freed for eternity To pulsate in beat with amazing Grace.

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