Stumbling

I am stumbling fool.

Tripping over grace. Tripping over mercy.

Falling flat. Again.

Choosing to stumble, my knees are scrapped.

Goodness calls to me. I walk the other way.

The path of gratefulness lays before me. I turn my back.

I am content to linger among the rocks of hardness and demand-my-own-way.

I neglect the flowers of gentleness and pluck the weeds of stubbornness instead.

When will I learn the song of gratefulness? When will I pluck the strings of praise?

How often must I scrape the knee before I bend the same?

Stumbling and sore, I bend.