Distracted Still
I feel my words sound a gray repetition
In all their feeble toils and spins
That when all comes to fruition
I am cleared from all my sins
And how small the words I speak
Lacking wisdom and beauty
Antithetically to being meek
In my attempts to be free
But I am restless in my thoughts
with all the lights and shows and sounds
My mind and heart have often fought
To worship that which is most profound
Oh that I could abandon all
To simply know You alone
work out early the idols of the fall
For to these I am ever prone.