The Ticker

My heart has a door
With a broken hinge
In futility, my effort
to hold stuff in
Has led me
To the Master's hands
They hold the key
To the corroded lock
Which I use as an excuse
To harbor all that's not right
The challenge for Him
Is not the lock or the hinge
It's finding room
In my roughshod ticker
To put all His goodness in
Still, really, no task at all
He shapes me as He wants
Making my heart
In the form of His love
Though, just a few sizes too small
So that without a lock
Or even a door
His love spills out
For me to share
With a world in disrepair