When I was young, I thought like a child, I played like a child, I was a child.
God was in the sky, and we, somehow connected to Him, were on the earth.
I knew forgiveness in that my father would buy me things, and hug me, and love me every morning after I sinned and was punished.
But now I am older. There is a much heavier weight for stumbling. Anything said can mean anything else.
Many who imagine themselves adults prove in their pride that they still remain children. I have seen it. The mind and the hand suffer an inconsistency.
(You, my God, have shown me grace. Continue to remind me to walk as You have declared me forgiven.)
I remember I wrote you a sonnet in the Mirror. But who are you? Your face is covered by multiform masks.
In this veil of great disguises, I wonder, did I know you at all?
Most Holy Father, in whom there is no deceit, lead me in the way everlasting.