Crooked Crowns

I am the daughter of the King,
 but I feel like the prodigal son who hasn’t come home.
I was gifted a crown and a throne,
but I cling to my dirty rags and sit in the garbage pit.
I was given power from the hands of the Most Divine,
 but I think my own power is better.
I was forgiven of all my sins, my dirty little secrets, my hurtful digs,
but I refuse to forgive others and cling to my bitter grudges.
I was encouraged to pray for more wisdom and faith so that I might mature,
but instead I use my Father as if he is a genie in a bottle for unneeded desires.
I was given the sword of the Spirit, sharpened with the Word of God,
 but instead I sharpen my tongue on those who are defenseless. 
I was told to go out to bring other lost children back to their Father,
but instead I hide behind my doors, behind my friends, in my comfort zone.
I was told to live sacrificially with a true selflessness,
but instead I count the pennies I give out, wondering if I absolutely have to give.
I was told to speak truth,
but instead I spread gossip and lies along my path.
I was told to love my neighbor no matter whom they might be,
but instead I hurry to the other side of the road and buy into false stereotypes.
I am called adopted child of the Most High God,
and I forget the grace that comes with that calling.
I was called to a life of mercy because I was forgiven,
and I forget to tell all of that gift that is just waiting for them.
I call myself Christian,
and I forget the duty that is placed upon that name.
I am a child who sits on a throne too big for me,
a crown that sits a little too crooked on my ego filled head,
I’m a forgiven sinner who clings a little too much to a hate filled world.
I feel as if I’m an impostor to the throne even through the adoption papers were signed with blood.
I still see the blood on my hands even though I was washed clean in the purist water imagined. 
I am a human in all the frailties of my soul.
Split in two, my heart wages war.
To seek the divine or live a falsehood.
The war wages and sometimes righteousness win, but too often the Devil has his due.
My crown is crooked, my feet don’t touch the ground.
I’m a child of God called to rule.
He has my soul, but the Devil has his poisonous claws within my flesh.
Sometimes I’m just a little girl playing in the Queen’s closet.
Forgive me when my scepter slips, help me hold it up.
Forgive me when I don’t represent my King in the best light,
because I’m still just a little girl needing to mature.
Here I sit on a throne too big, with a crooked crown,
still needing to learn on the lap of Most High King.


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