by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
I
weary with my fumbling mind
and flesh so weak
slight soft spots find
and wondering
a question asked
like aging wine
in wooden casked
improving if the promise true
and that alone
growth will ensue
a step nearer the hilltop trip
but still a step with grinding hip
and joints won't answer
muscles pulled and torn
and tendons weight have borne
rude thoughts not weighty cannot cope
hands will not come clean
in harsh soap
though soaked and stung the flesh replaced
with pink new forming interlaced
with Your hands, Love,
exhorting lead
though slippery with crimson feed
the flagging wish
the stoke my soul
not just end
as a broken foal
then knowing that to please You most
will turn the struggle up to coast
I stay
and You stay hardship's hand
Your probing touches shoulders land
and up I breathing chest-swelled sit
then look up from my self-dug pit
for my way out You have ensured
Your blood-borne fall my soul has cured
