I ran into the self again yesterday.
A familiar place, a dreaded place, in which I am not of the spirit of God.
One might attempt to curse against the barren land needy for a seven-times-seventy grace plan.
It only takes a glimpse to recognize the hardened, fallow soil of the earth,
dust and rock and dryness.
A curse, curiously, is the self mocking righteousness.
The word of Truth ends up lying as waterless seed
in the cemented bottom of the rutted heart.
The lament of Paul
"O wretched man that I am," is identifiable.
Spotted heart, cancerous and blackened
by an illusion of foolish self.
Do not founder here...such run-ins with self
simply call for will
drawing from a deeper well,
Living Spirit of Christ,
in You is a love without separation.