we sit down
with our sharpened pencils,
to chart out the
longitude and latitude
of your grace
only
to keep running
out of paper;

we tie a string
around each sin,
dropping them into
your sea of forgiveness,
only
to discover we can
never plumb its depths;

we scrabble and scrape,
push and pummel ourselves
from Land’s End to John o’ Groats*
on our self-planned journey,
only
to find
we are at the
starting point
of your Way;

how foolish we are
to try to limit you
by our imagination
only.