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Grace and Grit



I used

to think

myself insincere

if I praised God

through gritted teeth.

That is, until

I took my feeling

off of its pedestal

and kindly reminded it

that it does not

dictate the truth.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

When I preach

to my own heart

I begin

to slip

into a flow

of the joyful assurance

of my Helper. Like a stubborn

branch caught on the bracken of

a rivershore, my mind is dislodged from

its cobweb by a warm bass note that resonates

deeper than any earthly frequency of happiness.

I yield myself to His rhythm with two left feet towards

my bedrock of joy and of peace. This melody drowns my fears. It lifts my

leaden load and leads me to the cuckhold of the one truth I know-- Love come down

for me. Singing the cross evaporates my burdened black attitude. An effervescent bounty

of grace surrounds my clumsy notes and off tones and elevates me atop waves and currents

and stormy seas. They are beneath my feet when I sing. I remember who I am in Christ, and fret not

about tomorrow’s bread, laughing and leaning

into his promise,

instead.



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