Prone to wander, to leave the God I love

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing,
Tune my heart to sing Thy grace;
Streams of mercy, never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Here by Thy great help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood.

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

O that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face;
Clothed then in blood washed linen
How I’ll sing Thy sovereign grace;
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
Take my ransomed soul away;
Send thine angels now to carry
Me to realms of endless day.

-Robert Robinson, 1735-1790

What the hell?

What the hell am I doing here?

Who asked the driver to stop?

I don’t want to be here.

Why don’t we go on?

I don’t want to feel the sting of former love that feels betrayed,

like the oozing of a heroine addicts’ wound that never heals.

Sure, I can pretend not to feel it, pretend I don’t see, pretend I feel nothing for him.

Pretend that I did nothing wrong, and that everything will be just fine.

After all, time heals all hearts, right?

He’ll eventually forgive me. Won't he?

How long will it take?

Two years? Maybe three? Will that be long enough? Will the oozing stop?

Or will the bitter burning of the pussing sore never cease?

It seems to have destroyed all chances of a normal relationship.

Normal relationship? Ha, whatever the hell that is.

How can anything be normal? It’s not. It’s all abnormal. He knows it. I know it. Just about everyone seems to know it. It will never work. So why do I keep trying? Keep pretending that it can. Keep pretending that plugging up that gaping hole in my side doesn’t just rip open a new hole.

Argh, that hurts. It’s no wonder I don’t want to give it up. Loneliness feels just as damning as the love does. Even more so. The lonely nights, the lonelier days - I don’t want to be there again.

I don’t want to be here either though.

In all likelihood I’ll just hurt the next guy too.

I hope not. I don’t want to be responsible for any more gaping wounds that never heal.

Why has the vehicle stopped moving?

Maybe I’d best just get out and walk.

But I’d better stop and ask directions, I obviously haven’t the slightest clue as to how to get wherever the hell it is that I’m headed.