Unworthy

Last Sunday morning,
Something wrested me
From the routineness
Of life.

So often,
So mechanically,
I find myself
Pushing through
A familiar pattern of existence.
So familiar, in fact,

That the important wrongfully
Appears routine,

And the special …
Nonchalant.

The evils of blindness,
So powerfully demean
The profound.

This is my prayer …

That never will I take you
And your absolute love,
For granted.

Your blessing,
Gifted to me…

Your acceptance of me,
Despite my faults and failures
Remains
My salvation.

Of you,

I remain,

Unworthy.

© 2018 W. C. Stacia, Jr.

8 thoughts on “Unworthy

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