Unbeliever Poem by Gillian Commerford

Unbeliever



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.

Sunday, August 31, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: religion
COMMENTS OF THE POEM
The Hobbler 31 August 2014

I think you've summed up the feelings of many of us sitting on the edge of belief. succinct and effective

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