True North

By Trevor Lipscombe - Washington, DC, USA - 1 March 2014



This pain must be my prayer.

Lips no longer

Can be compelled

To say thy praise.

Sin, which once more wins,

Makes me mute.


This life-scarred soul

Can speak no words

Except to shriek

"I will not serve."


And yet I wait...


For grace to come

And kindle what embers remain

Into a steady flame

And lead me,

Surer than a compass needle,

To the soul's True North,

Which lies beyond that wooden door --

The priestly Pandora's box of hope

Where absolution awaits --

The entry way

To the narrow path,

A battered splintered door

That is the porta caeli.