In an anthology I purchased in university, I have a permanent bookmark on the following poem.
Unholy Sonnet 14, by Mark Jarman
After the praying, after the hymn-singing,
After the sermon's trenchant commentary
On the world's ills, which make ours secondary,
After communion, after the hand-wringing,
And after peace descends upon us, bringing
Our eyes up to regard the sanctuary
And how the light swords through it, and how, scary
In their sheer numbers, motes of dust ride, clinging -
There is, as doctors say about some pain,
Discomfort knowing that despite your prayers,
Your listening and rejoicing, your small part
In this communal stab at coming clean,
There is one stubborn remnant of your cares
Intact. There is still murder in your heart.
The longer I follow Jesus, the more aware I am of all the areas of my heart I haven’t yet submitted to him. Every selfish act is the embodiment of a heart bent on killing God and putting myself on His throne. Our sin is what killed our savior. My sin crucified Jesus. Yet in little (or not so little) corners of my heart lurk desires, which too often result in actions, that perpetuate that same sinful cycle.
The longer I follow Jesus, the more grateful I am that he was willing to go to the cross for me. He saved me from the sin that put him on the cross. He loves me. He sees the murder in my heart and loves me.
The Endeavor 