Self, I think of the many ways to sin or to evil. What causes myself to sin? The Devil? Other Folks? Rock n’ Roll music? Technology? Obama? No, sadly the answer is wretched me, oh my! It’s me, it’s all mine, and the reasons why I choose to sin and do evil are too many to count by ones or in twos or even threes. Going both slow and fast, my puny life has to be something more than seeking out momentary pleasures and passions that seem to occupy our modern hours, our modern minutes, and our modern seconds which seem to move at the same pace as our ancient ones. Bitter is the gain of gall and wormwood and all that is chased is chased is in vain and what could be happiness is scattered all about a wildly overgrown little garden.
Addiction you are a mean and riotous dance partner. Forced and scripted spasms of obsession ain’t how you boogie. You ain’t set me free yet, like you initially promised. Man, runnin’ with the devil surely ain’t no smooth ride, who knows where it leads when our map is all covered with a thousand little creeds. At the end of the day my soul looks like I’ve been caught by what I’ve been chasing, prey to the shifting winds of social trends, my soul is ugly if not uglier than that of that fictional dandy in that story of Mr. Gray. The Devil’s luck is not luck at all. What a mess, the victim of my own excess.
There are lights up on the coast and I put my foot down on the gas, but no matter how hard I try to speed, I can’t escape the ghost of my past. Shakin’ off the dust and gently takin’ off my heavy, rusted chains ain’t something someone as weak and proud as me can do by myself. I need a mighty power to get out from the avalanche I am under.
Dear God, where to look? In a book? Stories of fiction and fable are unable. Do I look to a woman? Well, woman are good , and surely there is bliss to be found in an angel’s sweet kiss, but to put these heavy boulders I carry on my back onto her delicate shoulders would break even the most blessed. Is there a government program, policy, court decision, that would build me up to be the man I should have been and should be? These I don’t see as all our corrupted by a rank spiritual disease, over-exercised ambition, vexing inconstancies and sleazy greed. Oh where is the good in that? It seems all good intention is contrived and designed to break me into a million different confused pieces rather than to help this wandering soul find its way and become an individual whole.
Oh Lord, where can a regular guy like me find peace and a happiness in a world like this? Where can I get all cleaned up before we sit down and sup? Who can stand me up and support me and my home when the hot, desert winds of fear and dread try to blow it down? Before my heart falters on whose sacrificial alter can I lay it all out? O where can I learn to harvest flowers rather than thorns?
As I recall, before my chosen fall, in a distant and unmoveable place beyond the seven stars, among the fields above the sea, where time stretches out longer than a solar year there is an unconditional love and an infinite sacrifice that is available to all who want it. I remember my parents of old telling of this, the Greatest Story Ever Told. Please Lord before I lay down these old bones, let me partake, let me come from my weary prodigal place and find some of Thy grace and pluck out these sorrows, and work for what is honest, brave and true for the rest of my todays and tomorrows. Oh Lord, give me hands that are clean, hands that are quick to lift those like me who are weak, give me hands the can recognize and defend the meek, and let me no more bear the mark of anyone’s pain. Let me sing a little more, sigh a little less, let me be a person of faith and not one of my own strange fiction.