Imploring God to hear my plea,
I weep to see my life awry.
I beg him do some work in me.
When truth lies naked on my knee,
I whimper, “Wicked flesh must die,”
Imploring God with desperate plea.
From such a death sin bids me flee,
And flesh, persuaded, would soon fly,
Escaping God’s grim work in me.
With mind awhirl on storm-tossed sea,
I bow to God, suspicious, wry,
Doubting God would hear my plea.
It’s ’neath the cross I come to see
The beauty of the call to die
And yield to God’s sweet work in me.
So though the Spirit hews this tree
And would my arrogance belie,
God, I implore you, hear my plea.
I beg you do this work in me.
© 2011 Eric Evans