It seems too syrupy and trite To sing of faith and God's true grace; Unlearned, too pious, shining faced: Yet, even so life and events do bite -- For years I have upbuilt my parish And yet still it might perish, Unless the saints despite their will -- And means -- their old routines do kill. And her well being I've been promoting, Directing, pushing, too often goating. Her demons, though, are strong, endure, But she, not I, must to You demure. Alas! Control is no control, Attempted 'tis a broken oar at sea. For You, yes even you, are free To now let go, release my soul.
©2000, John A. Mills