It Is Finished


By Woodbine Willie: Geoffrey A. Studdert-Kennedy

It is Not Finished

IT is not finished, Lord.

There is not one thing done,

There is no battle of my life,

That I have really won.

And now I come to tell Thee

How I fought to fail,

My human, all too human, tale

Of weakness and futility.

And yet there is a faith in me,

That Thou wilt find in it

One word that Thou canst take

And make

The centre of a sentence

In Thy book of poetry.

I cannot read this writing of the years,

My eyes are full of tears,

It gets all blurred, and won't make sense

It's full of contradictions

Like the the scribblings of a child,

Such, wild, wild

Hopes, and longing as intense

As pain, which trivial deeds

Make folly of — or worse:

I can but hand it in, and hope

That Thy great mind, which reads

The writings of so many lives,

Will understand this scrawl

And what it strives

To say — but leaves unsaid.

I cannot write it over,

The stars are coming out,

My body needs its bed.

I have no strength for more,

So it must stand or fall — Dear Lord —

That's all.