Tired

Eyes ablaze, there,
Like a furnace on my face, where
Assurance is a pace,
Sometimes too fact to chase,
My mind loses the taste,
To continue on chaste,
Lose all that I'd gained,
Now consumed in self-hate

And I, slip along the path,
Fall awaiting His wrath,
Caught by grace, leaning on His Staff,
I can only laugh,
How I deserve to be like the chaff,
And yet I've been dipped in Salve,
Dead and Restored in the Holy bath,
No longer only a human-half,
Into the Vine I was graft,
The King whose made life his craft,
He's the only hope I have.

Praise the King, Lord God of Israel and all of Heaven's Armies.