The truth is
I'd like to believe
that Jesus died for me.
Sometimes I seem to feel
the nails in my hands
I look down at my palms
and they bleed.
The truth is
I'd like to believe
that God takes care of me-
my father never did-
I'd lean on him
as solid as a tree.
But I fear
I'll never take that leap
from scepticism to belief
I'll stay here on the edge
the waters much too deep.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I think you've summed up the feelings of many of us sitting on the edge of belief. succinct and effective