The Confessional

If anyone reading this is a regular visitor at Cow's blog, you may already have seen this, but I thought it might be at least somewhat appropriate since Lent will be here in two and a half weeks. I wrote this poem a month or two ago for a poetry contest sponsored by a Catholic magazine (I can't remember what the name of it was at the moment).

Through all the darkest days and nights of life,
Through all the struggles fraught with sin and strife,
Through all the blackest streets and alleyways,
Through evil, brooding, and despairing days,
My worn and weary feet their way have made,
And oftentimes in errant paths have strayed.
My blinded eyes, all closed by sin and wrong,
Did naught to aid me as I groped along.
My outstretched hands, for help were not enough,
For feet would stumble when the ground was rough.
And in my breast all hope had left my heart,
Despair had aiméd true his cruel dart.
My fevered mind did conjure up a bell,
And fancied that it tolled a dark death knell.
Then in my grief and terror, upon my knees
I fell, and showered God with prayers and pleas.
I begged for truth, for rays of shining light,
To give illumination in the night.
And lifting up my weary eyes I saw,
A portal filled with mystery and awe.
A room beyond, all dark for sin and error,
Contained a kneeler and a hard, wood chair.
Before the kneeler, cut into the wall,
There was a window – and though it was small,
It let in light enough to fill the room,
Dispelling all the darkness and the gloom.
Within that place my sin was washed away,
My hope renewed, my nighttime turned to day.
Despair was gone, my errors God did erase,
And gave again His sanctifying grace.