In sorrow still, I see the morrow, bring me further strife,
Though I would have me strong, reason permits me no relief.
That every day, from little ways, to larger faults in life,
The saint of me declares me sinner, for my unbelief.
And so I wallow, in a way, which I know is profane,
It simply isn’t fitting, that I mourn my sense of worth.
For chosen folk, the kind am I, are here to entertain,
The grace which grows where God-blood flows upon a weary earth.
My breathing sighs, as grace reminds, me to remember him,
Whose hands stir up the oceans yet are holding every child.
My storm within, that mighty den, would quiet at a whim,
Of he who conquered hell, and then some, blameless all the while.
That I may cease to draw into account my pain beside,
The power of our king, the Christ, wherein our hope resides.