The Drunkard’s Remorse

What is this nagging? This twisting, curling worm inside me?

Here it comes raging as it eats what’s left of my soul.

What is my ailment? What is its remedy?

Oh, it makes me impatient! It burns me like coal.

Many a name is given indeed for this feeling of utter unhappiness:

Pride, wrath, sloth, greed, gluttony, lust, envy... 

The list goes on as they describe the feeling so ravenous.

It lurks and festers deep inside and makes my heart heavy.

I live each day in misery, each hour in total anguish.

What will become of this painful mystery of which my heart doth toil?

How long must I suffer, how long will I languish?

Is there nothing left to hope for to make this wretched worm uncoil?

Like a healing wound, will my bleeding sins not leave?

Will mercy not my sins surround? Will peace not in my conscience flow?

Will grace to not my evils come? If so, what would this all achieve?

I still would rot in sinful slums, crippled by burdens and made lay low.

No measure of love, no amount of forgiveness,

Could free me thereof, from these incestuous crimes

And send me up high to live with His Goodness

To live with Jesus nigh and be with Him for all of time.

But, alas! Forgiveness requires remorse, and beyond that, repentance.

Shame I could not but force. Therefore confession, I am far from able.

And so stays the insufferable ache, and of Heaven, I have no entrance. 

What will end this pitiful state? Will death come first, before I am stable?

Is there no rest for my weary mind, no vacation from my maladies?

Could not I leave my sins behind and enter into blissful nothingness?

Oh, my soul, it longs for peace! It yearns for a break from these tragedies!

Would death make this cease? Would it bring hope of righteousness?

Not even my sleep can make me forget,

Nor sleep my memories keep. In my slumbers I dream, I weep,

Of deeds quite immoral, of pasts I want to regret.

Such regret would only be oral, all my remorse is asleep.

I know all around that this is wrong. I know I should, and want, to stop.

But my unwholesome gong will sound as it pleases,

For I have no power, no will to drop.

It bangs and goes on to devour all in its path. It never ceases.

I am sick of it, yes, but I am far too lazy

To work to be blessed, to try to feel sorry.

I am sorry I’m not, but there I get hazy...

No sorrow, no confession, no confession, no glory...

No glory, no question for rest much wished for.

And so I am wasted from my sins and my story.

A sad story; tainted, discolored by war

Fought, half-hearted, by a disinterested person.

And here I sit, drunk by my sin, no will to remove it, no will to begin

Picking up the pieces so sin mayn’t win, but it continues to worsen.

I’m drowned in remorse of my carelessness. Carelessness to try,

Carelessness to repent, carelessness to feel remorse for my misdeeds done.

I care that I don’t, I remorse that I won’t and don’t know why. 

I would plead to God to take my idols, but I’m scared to have none.

With my sins gone, would there be a revival? Or would the freedom crush me?

I’m scared of the steps worth having to become pure, purged of sin.

Oh! What is this nagging? This twisting, curling worm inside me?