A Fortiori Poem by Seth Lloyd Norris Thomas

All my speaking is empty;
my words are meager offerings,
toiling long and hard to bring forth
one single, solitary piece of spoiled bread;
one vague meaning;
scant crumbs of a mind born stale.

Often my mind-life seems carried along by
passion and weeping alone.

My thoughts are so often bereft
of anything worthy of redemption,
though they are certainly in need of it—
and I don’t have much faith
that You are in the business of saving anything but souls.

[Though Your words tell me this is decidedly not so]