The body is not the enemy
But more like a child at play
That needs to be educated in time
That it will never have things its own way.
The mind is the garden and the serpent and the apple
All wrapped up together in one
But it will not admit
That it was by that snake bit
And forever is under the gun,
Except for the salvation of the Spirit
And the life there bestowed through the Son
Where the soul will return to the Father, All Good,
When the sense of the present is done.
I am too much the weary traveler;
I have through too many circles been spun,
So I seek just to pray in the garden a time
While I wait for my cross to be hung.