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I used to carry boxes of guilt. Now I am carried by grace.

I was boxed in like sardines
smelly, slimy, and sad.

Convicted by guilt like a can’s edge
shrapnel sliced my skin.

Crushed by legalism like recycled tin
broken, beat, and bruised.

Lured by grace like a baited hook
hungry, helpless, and humbled.

Released from my box like a cast downwind
soaring, shimmering, and secure.

Drawn closer to Him like a spinning reel
closer, confident, and not condemned.