Colin F. Jones

A LOVE POEM

I am cometh to the door of thought,
Before it burdened yet with naught,
That might yet maketh God displeased,
Yet I still I stumble to my knees.
What hath I done in all my time,
To seek out God in my dull rhyme?
More oft I’ve simply sought for me
The contents of my selfish plea…
That now I shaketh with regret
For fear that I may soon beget
A sentence which sends me to hell
That I might meet you there as well.
But then if thus I’ll not be sad,
For thou art with me thus I am glad.