I used to be
cocksure,
willing to
trample fragile souls for the sake of being right. And
it hurts to
think I was so unlike Your sacrificial kindness, so unlike Your bleeding,
selfless truth.
May I be
willing to be defeated to win one. May I grow accustomed to embarrassment to at
least appear humble as the pride prickles are chiseled away—one by one, by
weary one.
My kingdom
looks ever dim in the bright hues of Your shining presence—and may all see You
in spite of
me.
If I would feed
on Your words more than I feed on my need, I would be so much more nourished
with life to
give.
