Why do I fight? Why do I curl in fear? Why am I thrown about and sifted like wheat? Why? I am in ever doubt of whether or not I am truly Yours. How can I be when I play with such devils.
But You keep a hold on me, I believe at least. I have a conscience where I once did not. I desire not to sin against You. Yet at the same time I am played by my own self. It is like a bloody battle inside me, at the very soul.
Oh, the defeat though, is so harsh. As a finely made sandpaper being pushed across my heart and soul for days is the pain of the defeat. As a buoy as far as the deepest sea in the strongest storm is the torment of my soul as it is thrashed about between good and evil.
Oh how I wish to do good effortlessly, if that was even so. I say I am no saint and should not even be called as such. And You, in all Your holiness and awe, do so call me thus. The Man who died upon the Cross and hung between heaven and earth, the King that rose after three days, He has made me to be clothed in Him. Like a rotten stinking corpse covered deep inside beautiful crystal white snow am I before You.
This is, indeed, the only hope I have. Eternally.
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