a contrite

For the moments I think I’m weak… I thank you for proving it true.
Lowly bowing my head- here am I. Coming home to you.

How do put forgiveness in such a thankless jerk as me?
I receive and don’t repay your holy generosity.
I am grime, a filthy shame, wholly blasphemy.

I saw the sinking sand and trespassed loyally.
I’m always way in over my head- completely, totally, royally.
You’re always pulling my head up out of the muck.
I cling to that dirt I’m found in, but my mouth says that I’m stuck.
I know that changes must be made, steps to better light.
I don’t deserve this umpteenth chance, why do you hear my plight?

I am less than this turf I pace on so well-
This grass that’s dead where I’ve dwelled.
I say I’m sorry, my actions are ‘sorry’, my life is a sorry excuse.

I scream and plead, when I doubt my sincerity is contrite proof.
Lord, for the moments I feel weak, thank you for proving it true.