Who Will Set Me Free
Who will set me free
My pen is my comfort. Behold, my poem. *Who will set me free? I have been deceived, I believed my own lies. I am rooted to the earth, and I bare no fruit, only that of death. There is conflict within myself which holds me fast. I am in bondage to my own sin, which is eternally battling within. What gives life eventually gives one death. A cry of despair leaves my lips. I am disease, and whoever touches me, receives death. I do not possess the power of a life pleasing to live, for my leaves wither dry. I leave myself open and vulnerable to sin. I am rooted to the earth and I bare no fruit, only that of death. I wait for the one to set me free, to whom I will surrender all.
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She trembled when he heard his voice, she wasn't expecting him, and she jumped when she heard his voice. It was all just too much. This pain, this fear, this uncertainty of it all. Was she sane? She didn't know. Broken, perhaps? Perhaps.
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