Left wanting to believe
penetration into the absolute essence
where there is, and can be, no end.
You illude my life with Angels.
I know they exist but nay, no I hath not seen one.
Oh lord you can make this sinner a saint.
Why did you start me but run out of paint?
Am I then a sketch, of will which remains unfinished?
You mold me and make me what I am; of your clay…
Do not allow stagmentation; shape my life everyday…
Mend my spirit to do your will…
As you tarry - I pray for her still…
-jaaron anderson 8.11.1997
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