Poetry

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I.

Frail within a finite shell,
Crumbling clay of mortal mold,
Hoists its hubris on to hell,
Bent for fate so old and told.
Thick with throngs this path is laid,
Yawning wide its gaping gate,
Hinging towards the darkness; bade
By he collecting toll,
Remittance for the sinful soul.

II.

Narrow niche; a slender trail,
Cut by Christ, a costly course,
Bought by cross and pain and nail,
Mercy, peace, and joy its source.
Swath of trials, much less trod,
Faith in self, instead of God;
Weary walk on works alone,
Stumble once and miss the throne.

III.

Stray! I stray! From narrow way,
Fumbling feet that follow flesh,
Lead me where damnation lays,
Crouching, waiting to enmesh
Wayward saints in sin’s quagmire,
Binding them to taste the fire.

IV.

Launch a coupe, my Lord, in me,
Empty corporal kingdom, King,
Slay dictator, force him flee,
Sever chords to which I cling,
Spill my blood, that venous mud,
Fill with yours, my chambers flood,
Cradle, Father, errant child,
Foolish, by this world beguiled,
Love me who your name’s defiled,
Shape me who from you was styled.

© 2003 Peter Andrew Nelson

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