Bocca della Verita

Wasted minutes turn hours & hours to days
Complacency is a fool's game

I grow fat & ugly & out of touch
Easily grounded in familiar ruts

I rely on my eyes which cannot see
Trusting my heart which tends to deceive

I brush off the thought that God looks down
As I'm lazily selfishly milling around

Will pain be my prod, will grief give way
Forcing my hand, ensuring I obey

Or will I wise to the task prescribed for me
And respond to a love given so sacrificially