i am the quotidian sisyphus
rolling up
socks and bemoaning
the mountain
of dishes

i am a sort of atlas
crushed by
holding
the world of burdens
not meant for me

i am a frail achilles
vulnerable
not in my
heel
but my heart

i am no god
or hero
there is but
One
who is not myth

i am handing over futility,
burdens,
and all my weakness
to the One
struck down

i am raised up
with a world
made new
by the blood of a
Lamb

i am given purpose,
filled with peace,
trading frailty for strength
because of
                       I AM.