I am swift in my discontent,
Easily mislead, eagerly bent.
Like a traveling flower
Or a nomadic log,
I cannot find a place I belong.
The place where God puts me,
Never will do for a stay.
Sweeter sites must be found.
I'll have it my way.
Ready to try any chasm or leap,
If it isn't the 'same old,'
Doesn't bare that known 'creak.'
There's rest to be found...
When one is tucked in God's good will.
But staggering rebellion
Exposes me to that endless, white chill:
Discontentment.