The Warning

The world may praise me for
An even temper, eager ears, a ready smile;
But oft I use the skill
Of reason, craft and mind – the gifts that came from You –
To pardon sins that stand
As thorns against Thy will, as bards within Thy crown.

My even mood, derives it not from You?
And yet I sit content,
As if it were my own:
Believing I am more refined, more firm
More true than so and so.
Do I not need You more?

I do much less,
I am much less.
My even mood, my normal mind:
A rusting sword in sheath asleep.