Sunday, September 30

I am... the adulterous bride

I am so weak, so sick, so many are my faults
the poisoner, the snake, o'r my defeat exults

I settle for false love, afraid of perfect love.
My eyes are roving lust, I can not look above.

My poison flesh seems everyday to win again.
Yielding, I return to where I've always been.

His perfect Love casts out all fear, what wonder!
This Love so pure n'er will be torn asunder.

I, the whoring bride, am not by Him abhorred.
Again I fail, yet He remains my steadfast Lord.

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