Erasure dust was scattered 'round

my make-shift desk where I was found,

inside my garden court serene,

behind a stand of evergreen.

I should have guessed. I should have known,

mistakes I made were all my own.

I wrote too fast and wrote too long

when pencil slid on paper wrong.

Could all God's people understand?

I tried to move my shaking hand.

To reach lost souls is very tough,

my words seem never good enough.

Yes, back and forth erasure moves,

erasing sins that pencil proved,

that sin's mistakes can ruin lives.

They make a mess as death connives.

And next to rose which set on desk,

erasure dust was so grotesque.

Confused, I was, and ill at ease,

at makeshift desk behind the trees.

The perfect roses, red and pink,

had really made me stop to think.

But if I quit, then life grows still -

so write, I do, and always will.

Though God forgives, the pain remains.

Distracting wrongs bring mental strains.

They bring us pain, great guilt and strife,

but God brings breath, forgiveness, life.

Oh, our mistakes will always be,

yet grace through faith will set us free.

When God brings forth a stiff wind gust

and blows away erasure dust.

©2012 louis gander