As a child I grew

Hateful of sport except a few

I liked to run and kick flip

And neighborhood games with misfits

 

A game I liked

With two bases we were psyched

Running from respite to safety

The steps in-between steadfast and hasty

 

It was called pickle

Two bases one ball so fickle

Chasing the exposed when running

Each base holding hope so stunning

 

A game of knowing

Choosing each step while toying

Yet with the greatest precision

Splitting the lawn with desperate incision 

 

And once grown

The effect is my mind is sometimes blown

Considering all the race of faith

From the ball of sin on fleshly chase

 

A base beginning

I start at the love of Christ not ending

Clinging to the beauty there

But I run toward another lair

 

A base ahead

I chase it or else I know I am dead

And as sin pursues ever behind

Hope to know this Christ fills my mind

 

Hope and love 

Bases given by God above

And faith ushers me onward

Wanting Him and not the absurd

 

My flesh fails

I am often off the rails

But the game does not end when I stumble

In fact that is used to make me look to Christ and be humble

 

So with grass stains

Muscles sore with pains and strains

I press to know Him at last

Running to the future, holding to the past