My Heart: A Plea

Whether at noon or midnight, my heart is not still.

Emotions, some hot and others cool, roil.

Thoughts interject, ex nihilo—seemingly out of nowhere.

Senses heighten then dull and breed unsurety.

Tied intimately to mind, my heart fends off sleep.

My heart yearns for you, God, yet resists you all the same.

It is scarred, dented, engraved with ruts. Bent. Corrugated.

Trenches and potholes, punctures of sin nap upon

the surface and depths. A crestfallen countenance,

dull and tarnished, void of words, is my heart.

But it is not still, it beats; my heart is not still.

So, here it is, Lord, take my heart as it is,

as it beats. Have your way with it.