John Smith

This Sunday morning finds me still in bed
Though not hung over, seized with doubt, or ill—
In fact, the opposite, but lacking will
To rise from lolling and my limbs’ slack spread.
At least this lack of fervor will not wed
Me to a mission or a vest tailored to spill
The blood of strangers as if to fulfill
Commandments born less of love than dread.
This peace of ready understanding breaks
Against one martyr’s term for it—“cheap grace”—
The wound uncleaned, yet ample balm applied. 
Reopened, may I find a heart that wakes
To more than sloth, discerning my true case,  
A need for mercy deep as it is wide.