This season of my life,
Is replete with pain and strife.
tis not a struggle with men,
Nor wrestling against a besetting sin.
My own body is now my foe,
Each corporal rift lands a blow.
My own hands grasp to choke my cheer,
My own brain mocks goodness held dear.
Even so I will not despair.
Though my body be beyond repair.
I have long known it is but a tent,
Very soon its time will be spent.
There is a me much deeper inside,
Though now in ragged tent it does abide.
It Will one day soar as eagles fly,
On spirit wings that never die.