Sinking lower, spinning head
nothing worse than my own bed
that which good or bad has bred
steals from me your grace.
no, haunts and taunts and drains
the lifeblood of hope and daily good
sapping will to live.
but then, in dire straits, your word
become flesh reminds me that
somehow i can trust, even tho
I am slayed.
the night does not give up so easily
and day wakens to despair
and still i labor to breathe
and fear casts its wave
and crashes on my souls' dismay.
but hope calls
and dreams come true
and lightening strikes the blackened sky
and I come running home to You.