Poem: Sorrow For Besetting Sin
Pamela Ayn Austen
Forbidden life, a thorny iron around my neck;
To pierce and bleed, wherever I turn my gaze;
Upon the good or evil, fine or foul;
I walk with disease upon my soul, ever watching for my fall.
I am ashamed for them to know;
The blood they see, it is my own;
From turning my head too far to the left;
Then thrashing back in fear and dread.
I see no relief, but through my life to take;
Not death that frightens, but to live for life’s sake;
When clawing sins do leave their pain;
And shame and fear and hopelessness remain.
And yet I must move forward still;
For Jesus, his own blood did he spill;
And thorny vines around him pierced;
And nailed him in the sinner’s place.
And if he came to die for me;
And pierce his body on that tree;
Then courage I will also take;
To carry on, my fears forsake.
Do I dread, and did he not;
Under the moon, in that garden spot;
To sweat drops of blood at horror’s arrival;
But call sin sin, and die for me.
He did not struggle with my sins;
Yet struggle he did, for my retrieval;
From the very things that sting my heart;
He saw, he knew, he gave his all.
I may not be all I wish for now;
I cannot loose this thorny bound;
But not in fear will I endure;
Only in sorrow, as I keep still.
Tis faith he sees within my heart;
Tis faith he wanted from the start;
Tis faith I ever more shall find;
When I cannot free myself, his love unbinds.
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