My Lot

 

My Jesus, My Lord.  Am I destined for hell?

Your taste extremely bitter,

Intoxicating fragrance can’t smell. 

You're without sin, but I wallow in it.

I’m the black sheep of the flock in more ways than one. 

A man that loves men, that’s what I am 

And this was always a part of your plan. 

I must be myself the best that I can. 

 

When amongst others, idly, we talk. 

Not the gospel of song but gossip of rot.

I ponder, O Lord, what's to be my Lot? 

Enter a fiery furnace that eradicates me? 

Like Judas Iscariot, disgraced and hung in a tree.

Or the “woman at the well," whom you set free? 

 

Will I become a violent Hitler or a peaceful Gandhi?

I must be myself the best that I can. 


© David Girard 25/03/15

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my Lot

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