When I see you at your best
I often see me at my worst,
it feels as though I’ve not progressed,
I feel more evil than at first.
‘Speak!’ they say, ‘Pour out your soul!’
But that’s the thought that makes me sick,
my opened heart’s a spill of oil,
my prayers are seagulls in the slick.
(wings thick with oil, no thanks, no praise,
just hopes no spark sets seas ablaze)
If it’s blessing that unveils my sin,
and answered prayer that makes guilt plain,
if peace with God means war within,
then I must take up arms again!
(Can oil-soaked feathers arrows fletch?
Is prayer still prayer if from a wretch?)
And so again my sins confessed,
I see again our roles reversed.
The cross a hinge on which all turns:
the sinner blessed, the saviour cursed.