Of Slavery, Redemption, and Grace

The first thing I do is run away.
Even if I must come, even if all the more that I must draw near.
But I don’t.
I go in hiding. I run away. I lock myself up in the closet,
And beckon the darkness to lose the key. 
I don’t want to be found.
I am all flesh.

The heart is deceitful above all else, he wrote. Desperately sick.
I do not understand what I do, for what I want to do, I do not do, 
but what I hate, I do, he wrote.
These, I feel, I am, I could have written the very same things myself.

Sometimes I wish I was the ocean,
Or the tree.
So I won’t have to run away.
I won’t have to be flesh.
I won’t have a deceitful heart.
I wouldn’t be me.
I would reflect only Your glory, none of mine.
I would show only Your beauty, none of my wretchedness.
I would all be pure, with no hint of a corrupted heart.
I would only praise You, always, forever.
As the ocean, I would forever dance for You.
As the tree, I would forever clap my hands for you.
And my hands and feet would always be set apart,
Never having been used for perversion.

I can’t keep on living this way.
I can’t keep on taking one step forward and two steps back.
My aching soul is longing to be home.

How do I do this? I ask. What do I do?
“It’s not about what you have to do,” You say,
“But about what I have done for you.”

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