September 2, 2014 by Janelle Garrett 0 comments
A twisted seed writhing forth, converging in the soil
Bringing darkness, birthing fear, mindless in its toil
Distorts the call of shameless grace, rejects the call of hope
It cannot see the barren soul from which its blackness sloped
It mires the bog of fruitful life; it shames me to the core
It lies and says, “I am your friend, come with me to the whore.
Forget the ones who bring you up, they do not know your truth.
Your lusts are only right and good, you are but only youth.”
Perhaps it’s right, perhaps I still am only young and free
Then why the shame, the bitterness? Why the agony?
If lies were truth then why the sting of choices made in fun?
Then why the need to justify works I’d already done?
Thus lies are only hope’s false god, lies cannot unchain
The darkness of my own true need to prove I’m not a bane
So seed, desist and lie no more! Flee your shallow grave!
I stand upon the truth of grace, to mercy I’m a slave.
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