Inside Of The Hypocrite

I am no saint
and sometimes
you may want
to brand
the word
hypocrite
on
my
forehead,
and some days
my example
is horrid
at best,
but I long
so hard
to be
an
angel,
a mirror
of who
Jesus
is,
but I know
I'm not
Jesus
and I know
I'm not
God,
and I long
to have an
unshakable
solid
love
in my
heart,
and I long
to be
sweet
and kill
the
judge
inside of
me,
and have
a well of
mercy in
my
soul,
and be
blind and
deaf
to the
harsh
cruel
deeds of
others,
but as
much as
I want it,
it is
quite
a
Crag
to
climb,
and
sometimes the
road
 is
overrun
with
bramble
and
gigantic
boulders
and
fire
and I
feel pain
and I rebel
because
I'm mad
at God
and I act
like a child
with a heart
of entitlement,
and forget
that I am
entitled
to nothing,
not one
tiny pebble
of grace,
nor the
smallest
trinket,
for once
my heart
was a
bucket
of
wickedness,
and I am
not any
more worthy
than the
worst of
the worst
of heathens,
but sometimes
I forget that,
and I become
a hearty
 stew of
ungratefulness,
not thankful
and bitter
as lemons,
and in
the amnesia
of my
wrath
I forget,
that at
the end of
the day,
that God loves
us all at
our best
and our worst
and even the
souls,
that extract
the deepest
of my
loathing