His Hand

I dream.

I hope.

But I am impatient, self-seeking, undisciplined, and weak.

Though I wish my wishes, 

what are those dreams and hopes if what I am inside covers their shine?

I become discouraged and beat myself down for not being able to change and fight against my nature. My sin.

And so, I hold onto His hand. His pierced hand. The only hand that can lift me up from my grave. It is He who gives me the strength to try again and again, despite my failures.

He guides me  through the maze of choices, and endlessly waits and understands my weaknesses. 

He has his hands stretched out to me.

I reach out and hold on.

Start again.

pardon me for the cheesiness. :P