On a cold...rainy...Texas night,
running through the woods...is a man.
Desperately trying to keep out of sight.
A gun clutched tightly in his hand.
Panting heavily, through the forest he flees.
"My God"...he prays fervantly as he runs.
The Heavens are oblivious to his pleas,
for it is a terrible crime he has done.
His heart is encased by a shell of ice.
Intense fear runs through his veins.
He knows he is unable to pay the price.
He would never survive a life in chains.
The sweat flows freely off of his brow.
The muscles in his legs begin to ache.
He's bound to be caught for he's tiring now.
But run he must, for freedom's sake.
Not far behind, heavy footsteps urged him
to sprint even faster than before.
But, inside, his heart was burdened with sin
and he found he could run no more.
Was it fear, arrogance or maybe even shame,
that caused him to use his very own gun?
With one last attempt to ensure his fame...
With a single bullet he ended his fugitive's run.
"That man has shown himself great who has never grieved in evil days and never bewailed his destiny." --Seneca