Our lives unwrap
the unintended gift of falling short

It is our worst
he redeems,

It is our worst,
his speciality

For when we stumble,
grace turns back down the mountain
to pick us up

Our bones, de-calcified in Christ
come alive
and in the desert, dancing

Our muscles, machismo,
are of sweet atrophy

We are Christ the cripple,
body still broken

Where sits me, now, heralded in failure:
a throne of grace descends

Yea, even though I bind myself with fruitless tethers
and come to slow deceit, He finds me
and begs for my weakness to claim

I, having turned from from him —not intentionally
but by the slow mar of this worldly lion—
now draw back

Strengthened by grace,
that sweet ode to all things
balancing on their heads

Photo by Edu Lauton on Unsplash

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