Lord...it’s me again

too tied up to talk.

Rushing hither, running yon.

Always hurry. Never walk.

So much to do

in this breathless race.

No time to ponder

or return Your grace.

Take a number!

Have a seat!

The phone is ringing...

grab a bite to eat.

Love to chat

but look at the clock.

Excuse me now,

no time to talk.

Much to do

at this rapid run.

(Why am I always

under the gun?)

Drop me a note.

Write me a line.

I’ll get back to You

if I can find the time.

So why is it,

with all this doing,

I sit here now

painfully ruing

the day’s decision

to put You on hold,

revealing a life

turning sadly cold?

How dare I,

recipient of this gift,

so callously frail

to sort and sift

through reasons why

You’ve given me

and then not stop,

in thanks, to see

the love You are,

the fool I am.

Lord...it’s me.

Can I begin again?