January 13, 2013
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January 1, 2005

The wanting soul (a poem)

By Selwyn Duke

If I had faith just the size of a mustard seed,
Mountains would move at my command,
And my walk with God would be as on concrete,
And not the unsure footing of sand.

But where there's flesh and fallen nature,
Doubt is never far behind;
Fed by the seductions of this world,
It preys upon the mind.

This is when hearing a million incredible stories
Makes cynicism carry the day,
And only the material seems real
And the worldly becomes the way.

It is when sin comes like a siren,
Urging me along,
And I so want to go where it would take me,
Even though I know it would be wrong.

But in my finer moments,
When your mysticism meanders in,
The everyday becomes astounding
And dwarfs the appeal of sin.

That's when your great perspective
Makes the ordinary seem odd,
And I know that it's not of my own design,
And that you, my Lord, are God.

Selwyn Duke is a frequent contributor. This is his first poem published in The American Thinker.

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