A Convenant

I lay awake at night
Often short of breath
And with the morning light
Pass into a waking death.
Do I want the old life
That was simple and plain
Or can I risk some wild
Fling of the dice of pain?
O Lord cast this worthless slave
Wherever You decree
There is as much to save
As there is to damn in me.
Dear Lord, this rakish saint must tell the truth of it:
I am Yours (may You be mine!); do as You see fit.

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This entry was posted in Sonnets.

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