Still Breathing

Wash my sins away.
All of them,
large and small,
new and old,
wash them down the creek,
down the river,
into the sea.

Let them sink beneath the waters
like a malignant treasure,
so far,
so deep,
even the most violent storm cannot raise them,

where they no longer persecute,
no longer blacken the sky,
where they simply do not exist
and I am free once again
to fly unburdened.

Wash my sins away
with your unblemished love,
with eyes that are far from blind,
but instead, see what I can not,
see what is under the grime and sweat
and grimaces of pain,
love that sees my brokenness
and laughs at the idea
that I will remain in tatters,
but instead raises me up
like a battle flag,
a proclamation of your power
to raise from the dead
even those who died long ago
but still breathe.

About this poem

A morning prayer. A love poem. Both.

Tom