Dusting with Socks on His Hands

A new day sweeps across the skies
Like a clean white sock
Sliding over surfaces.
And as the sun proceeds,
So the sock accumulates lint,
Hair and dead spider legs:
Smarting words,
Goodnesses I doubted,
Tasks undone,
An argument I joined,

Ugly impressions left behind.

The day thusly spent
The aged sun sinks
Like a filth-covered rag
Unable to dust any longer,
Its accumulation heavy on me.

Did any good come of it?
I wonder as I toss in sleep
Like a sock tumbled in the wash.

I wake to a day renewed
My nightly struggle adding nothing
To the advocate who interceded

All night, washing me white as snow,
Resetting me afresh to marvel
At surfaces the Lord made clean

Through me.