Embarrassed by error and electrocuted with regret,
Undreedemed in many areas . . .
The devil highlights my shame.
Taken to task by the curse my inner man cries hard . . .
My wooden tears splinter on my cheeks
- Hitting the ground as lies.
It may be Friday but Sunday's coming.
Dark grey skies litter my soul -
The accuser feasts on my weakness.
In contrast, my spirit towers as a cast iron fortress
It cannot be bruised nor tainted by wanton oppression . . .
I said it may be Friday but Sunday's coming.
Serrated mistakes scratch at my memory -
Breaking the skin of my yesterdays they bleed into my heart.
Deep inside I hear The Word . . .
Wisdom's voice dances across my understanding -
The battle is mine He says.
The broken record of failure plays in the background -
Tearing off scabs it exposes my iniquity.
In a pincer movement joy pulses from my spirit man -
Cutting off the lies and cursing them from the root.
I marvel at the hope within and stand on the truth . . .
It may be Friday but Sunday's coming . . .
Sunday's coming.
See more original poetry at http://www.scotcrone.co.uk/
