like a cord of wood that's split
going down into the pit
is the flow of my life force
to a halt abrupt, of course.
yet have I been spared this day
to repent and mend my way,
only if I do not dream
of pulling out another's beam.
finely carved or left to rot
my grain determines quite a lot
until the splinters of my life
are burned away by holy strife.
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