Struggle

I'm beginning to understand the meaning of the word "struggle."
Never in my life have I been wrapped so tight, felt so exhausted by my unwillingness to fight.

Up all night but couldn't pray with any of my might.
It's a struggle I fight with until the morning light.

A blind man's bluff? I've lost my sight and now I'm ready to give up.
I honestly don't know what to do. I don't want to figure it out, either. So the diagnosis declares I'm through.

True! But not if I have a God who cares enough to take me all the way through, making sure to step in right after I make the first move by faith.
Because it would be a shame to see so many good gifts go to waste.

I'm so special, but only if I knew it.
Those saints were right when they told about those sleepless nights; it's not only a struggle, it's a ruthless fight.

My blood mixed with His blood and a storm of lightning, tears, and rain.
And that blood is reminiscent of pain, pain that was inflicted when, for me, Christ was slain.

And that comes to mind when, after this realization, my willingness to sin still remains. . . Now you tell me that isn't a crying shame.