True North
By Trevor Lipscombe - Washington, DC, USA - 1 March 2014
This pain must be my prayer.
Lips no longer
Can be compelled
To say thy praise.
Sin, which once more wins,
Makes me mute.
This life-scarred soul
Can speak no words
Except to shriek
"I will not serve."
And yet I wait...
For grace to come
And kindle what embers remain
Into a steady flame
And lead me,
Surer than a compass needle,
To the soul's True North,
Which lies beyond that wooden door --
The priestly Pandora's box of hope
Where absolution awaits --
The entry way
To the narrow path,
A battered splintered door
That is the porta caeli.