Within me lurks an editor,
a snarling, sneering ghost,
who fights a cruel and savage relentless war,
and knows what wounds me most.
He casts his doubts, his judgments cold,
upon the words my pen does write,
he lashes out with scathing scold,
he blows out the candle’s light.
I shout, “Leave me be, torment me not,
why do you curse me so?
You snatch the words that I have wrought,
and dam the river’s flow.”
“That’s not right and that’s not good,”
this Judas voice does warn,
Yet I press on, I know I should,
I must overcome his scorn.
I pray to God, “Call forth Your Voice,
cast out this demon fear!
Your Spirit’s peace, that is my choice,
to have You close and near.”
So I write on and on and on,
and will fill these mortal days,
with stories of the come on gone,
and of the beauty of His ways.
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