Did I descend into this dusk, or did it
descend into me,
This three-quarter slumber of mindless
unproductivity?
Yet my stay under a bushel, my dull,
unholy indolence
Can't stop the sun from rising once
it's set upon my sins.
In my very fullest flower, under light
of brightest Son,
It appears I have achieved; some even
praise what I have done.
To me, it's clearly Spirit's capital,
on which I've raised no dividends.
And then comes nightfall–sin rings
the bell, and study under Spirit ends.
My life's inconsistency just goes to
show that nothing's changing.
The Zen Christian lives a life of
extremes in moderation,
Where shadows will always hide sin's
well-baited snares,
Where the ground will be scorched by my
expectation's glare.
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