| The mind churns through this bittersweet realm,
Guilt upon guilt and me at the helm.
The course is so plain, I can’t from this hide
Noble attempt to quench hubris inside.
Knowledge, such knowledge dwelt in my hand
But cowardice held tight to each grain of sand.
“Nothing is sacred” became my sweet ploy –
Remember the fool, how his tongue would annoy?
As for the truth, is it not plain to see?
How faulty my reasons, oh how deceived.
Mortar and water make no strong defense –
Sand was required to provide the substance.
How many have fallen, how many ravished?
My shame is complete, my pyre is lavished
With countless souls that awaited a word
The grain from my mouth that never was heard.
My body is death, so whom shall me save?
Thanks be to God and the Son that He gave.
What response can be made? What deeds can be done?
I must give Him my grains. Yea, and yield my tongue.
©1997 Carl Pecinovsky
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