My will, not thine

In the still, crisp night

life’s brevity

gasps for air,

trapped in the

realization of

without faith it is

not only

impossible to please him

but simply

impossible.

As shadows of bare-limbed trees

dance on the soft cotton drapes

in the moon’s full light

awareness beckons

sweat as blood.

Let this cup pass o’re me

and give me life.

Not so noble as the True Son

I cannot breathe the words

Thy will be done

but, rather,

my soul silently screams

Let me live, Father.

Let me live.

© Donna Arthur Downs