My burden:

In a square of cloth I place my woes:
The desire for what's been lost;
The ache for those when my love fell short;
the regrets for things I didn't do
and for the things I did.
I gather up my fears, remember each
and how I ran, then drop them in.
I should have trusted you.
And shame! For when my pride was hurt
--as though pride is ever good
or served myself or you.
It's big and bloated and oozes shame,
I wipe my hands of it.
Trembling, I recall mistakes I've made.
What I valued that I shouldn't,
What I should, but didn't.
Regrets! They're heavy and they hurt.
I cry as I shove them to the pile.
What time I've wasted--
when a second can have such impact,
and I whiled away my hours.
The pile of sins, the wrong's I've done,
the burdens that bore me down.
Ashamed, I'd rather hide.

I gather the four corners of the cloth,
and pull and center, tie the bundle closed . . .
with all my strength I lift it, and struggle out the door.
Beyond the tree and down the path
until I reach the summit of the hill
and there I lay my burdens down at his feet,
and offer up the me that is in it.
I feel a soft, caressing breeze,
an almost unheard whisper.
The bundle shrinks,
it floats aloft,
weightless in his unseen hand.
I'm free, unfettered,
tearful for the joy.
I'd promise to not build another pile,
but spend my time as seconds count
and his will, mine.
Where you will me, Lord!
My burden--yours.