The Whole Hole

You grip the shovel, feel the weight,  

the first plunge splits the earth apart.  

Dirt flies, a jagged mouth yawns wide.  

You tell yourself it's just a start.  

Half a hole? You laugh at the game,  

but the ground keeps swallowing greed.  

Every thrust of metal cuts deeper,  

every grain whispers of need.  

Sin isn't the soil, it's the digging,  

the sweat that stains your hollow hands.  

You think you're building an escape route,  

but you're burying yourself where you stand.  

The hole breathes heavy, pulls you down.  

No ladder, no rope can heal the lack.  

Your arms grow weak, your heart stumbles.  

This chasm demands a way back.  

And then there's grace—calloused, unseen,  

hands reaching to pull you upright.  

God lays the shovel to the side,  

fills the void with His quiet light.