I can look up into my Father’s gaze,
bright & forgiving-
or hang my head as my feet stay
planted, hesitancy never absent
in the dread of continuing.
The battle for my life already was won
by a man spilling rose blood.
Every morning the sun finds my face,
I know His aroma has never smelled as sweet,
for the sacrifice of perfection led to
inward flowering, despite how I view my faulty body’s outer withering.