Forward

forward marching
chasing perfection
a different word that fills this space, feeling thirsty by His grace
for acceptance, love, faith that grounds
faith in seeds, I hear no sound
growing silently in the windy plains
isolation has found me here
staring at dirt with manicured hands
out dang spot! but it will not leave
apart from Christ's blood dropping on these
underserved hands who can create no growth
only wreckage,
slowly blinking, breathing weakly
a heart so feebly facing resistance
flesh so strongly craves perfection.
But in the silence there is hunger
desire draws my eyes up yonder
to an eternal rest
I can feel toward me
with blood stained hands by grace through faith I cling to thee.