Sonnet 2


I make of thee an idol, image gold,

Your beauty steals the very place of God;

Where He once sat, this throned position hold-

By you: my very soul doth think this odd.

Oh desperate calamity called life,

That simple pleasures capture, close, and toy

Between the Lord and self- this war brings strife;

I ache to see my life: stained, vain, and void.

What plagues my mind: those pictures I do see-

Sinned, beautiful, deceptive looks bring lust;

Dependent I’ve become, no longer free,

And now my iron heart has turned to rust.

Please overflow my heart, oh Lord, I pray;

My wretched self, the price too high to pay.


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