CXI: Another Sunday strewn across a pew

And still, despite the many proofs I’ve set

for me to know that, here, I do belong,

I still am filled with sorrow and regret

for all I do, and all that I’ve done wrong.

But that’s the point, now isn’t it? I say.

The chapel is the house for we, the lost.

Why must I feel the sorrow anyway,

despite the truth I know about the Cost?

Is there a place e’en yet for one like me

to sing among the saints of God below?

Can hearts like mine rejoice, repent, and flee

the fear that stirs, despite the good we sow?

So wheat grows with the tares, the Lord relays,

and I am but a vessel that obeys.