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As weak as the human heart poses to be, it is perhaps the most potent part of the body. It bleeds; it heals; it cries; it laughs; it mourns and it rejoices. Not more than the size of a clenched fist, the hollow muscular organ of the body shaped like an upside-down pear, remains a rare treasured gift from God. However, my heart has been unscrupulously corrupt and decisively wrong. I’ve done all that I know to do, to channel a new course for my weary soul, but I always return to this point. A place where I dance on the slippery floors of remorselessness to the same old tunes of sinfulness, dressed in the garment of earthly pleasures.
I’ve enjoyed the good of the land and I’ve tasted the first fruits of many bumper harvests. I clearly understand when the day is fair and bright and I can also decipher easily, when the dullness of a dark cold night sets in. ‘How did I end up in this dungeon of emotions, self-pity and shame?’ I keep asking myself. Could it be as a result of the machinations of my desperately wicked heart that is deceitful above all things? If it is, then who can know it? And who will separate me from its malicious pangs? Though I understand that every man who has no rule over his own spirit is like a city that is broken down, and without walls, yet for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I. O wretched man that I am! Who shall deliver me from the body of this death? And who shall save my weary soul?
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