Means of grace (a poem)

Sometimes this means of grace
is a long drawn-out humble confession
other times our cynicism needs to be
brutally murdered, quartered and beheaded.
Our human eyes are so frail and poor
blocking the wonders, the majesty – His love.

Sometimes this means of grace
falls into our laps, haphazardly
and quite by surprise.
We realize how quickly life can change
we attempt to rearrange on our own
but fall so terribly flat on our faces
we can’t win these spiritual races
in their places we need His grace.

Sometimes this means of grace,
blanket heavy, warms us from the cold
boldly plucking our guilt from frozen
finger tips
while we utter from our lips
the prayers we’ve been taught
yet only when His soothing hands
touch our skin do we ever let
it reach our hearts…

How damned we are without it.
how utterly wasted away
frail worn and dirtied from the fray…
how damned we are without it.

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