Something Like Regret

The power to heal, power to kill (Pro. 18:21)From morning until evening does fillUnlike an electronic document, where words disappear with the simple stroke of a key,Or a sheet of letter paper marked with ink, shredded so easily,A word, a thought spokenSo carelessly and hastily made known,Never to return, bearing fruit-- shriveled or whole,And subsequent words, insufficient to console. Honest words and dishonest,Etched into the listener’s mindNo such luxury to distinguish between,That which you truly meant and a flippant kind ‘Twould seem that liking the sound of one’s voiceWould also mean an appetite for the sour taste of one’s foot. Too often, Lord, I see my dirty feet,And cannot bear to bring it to my lips,So I ask you to wash them with your loving hands,So I won’t let a harsh word slip. Because what is within my heart dispels from my lips,My mind, heart and soul must be renewed,Before I remember to hold my dear foot beside me,To remind myself my oughts and shoulds. Because, Lord, those who I love the most,Are those who hear my words most,Because Lord, this same tongue praises you and prays to you,And my heart, your Spirit’s host.