Unto what shall I liken my struggle filled walk in life?

Unto a breath without air, gasping and grasping

for that which I can clearly see and ever try to be,

but like unto the shining stars of heaven’s glory above -

lies as it would seem high above my reach.

 

Yet my hands are stretched heavenward.

 

Unto what shall I compare the hope which I have for change?

To the light of sun above the storm, breaking through betimes

with the brilliance of a gleam and a glimpse of the dream,

but even as the delicate flower of the desert plain -

it withers and returns to the ground hidden once again from view.

 

Yet my faith awaits the rains of spring.

 

And what likeness portrays my will to go on?

The waves of the wind driven sea ever striving to come ashore,

yet each time falling back for gravity they lack,

but like the shimmering beauty of the freshly fallen snow -

though it turns to grey and melts away, yet is destined to come again.

 

So also am I resolved to return in the season and never surrender…

until seventy times seven.