Frailty, I am,
bound by flesh and brittle bone:
corruptible, incontinent,
haunted with inconsistency.
These manacles of tissue,
shackles of fluid--
slaves to dark indignities.
When He comes
will He find a mind
no less erring
no less prone
to wavering, infirmity?
Perhaps, in fragile moments found
twixt shadow and anxiety.
But deep,
distant embers,
beneath bitter maladies,
simmer,
like birds snowbound,
clamoring,
aching for exultation,
an end to transiency.
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