You are the Christ, the son of the living God.
It was not flesh that revealed this to you but my Father.
I struggle on carrying the weight of doubt on my back in a heavy hod.
Nagging scepticism I cannot put to the slaughter.

But belief soaks in like warm gentle rain on a summer’s day.
It arises not from within but inspired from him.
Barely noticed it is fashioned by the supreme potter’s clay.
I need just to surrender to the spark from that distant lighthouse out of darkness glim.

True we will never be a rock.
Nothing will ever be built on us.
More like a shifting tide coursed sandbank we are something to mock.
Our journey’s end is unknown, we ride a directionless bus.

But as long as we know that alone we can make no progress.
At least there is hope that we may not regress.