The tirade of the old nature is endless,
bossy flesh, monstrous cravings,
sensual swoon, murderous thoughts;
you get the idea, and one could spend
all day and half the night in torment,
plus expert analysis to the finest detail,
not to mention the gift of condemnation,
which grows endlessly in its “I’m no good”
flip side of pride, after a season of exaltation.
Yes, that old nature is a killer for Christians
and non Christians alike, though the former
make a shrine out of it—the place where
one can find every reason to stall in defeat.
But once one ever sees that this is all a lie,
a pile of rubbish, and fabrication only
a serpent would devise, then the game’s up:
oh yes, the same war goes on always
in this dispensation, as Paul says
in Galatians. What a secret too where he
says that sin is no longer I—yes that’s Romans 7.
So if it’s not I, then it’s not I.
All the evil is the nature of one not I—
like all the good is the nature of one not I.
Where does that leave me?
Laughing all the way, as vine ripened sweetness
pours forth scent, flavor—mist watering the self—
bud, flower, sap, full power—and every
sweet and merciful certainty of faith.