I may stand before you,
but a scarecrow, a
beast
of hay not even fit to
fill
your footstool, ready
to
burn at any moment.
Hoping to burn,
actually,
to blaze up in an
instant
and instantly forget
the guilt of my
iniquity.
I don't want you to
leap
into the furnace and
be singed yourself
instead,
your flesh dripping
from
your melting bones.
Why even ask?
The wicked deserve no
grace,
and I am chief among
them.
Why not be raked over
the coals
and blaze away in a
stench as
foul as the deeds that
I commit?
And as I weep over
my brokenness, Lord,
I wonder if you weep
as much as I do—
or maybe not at all.
