The tight-rope of salvation
Is a straining, wire-taut strand
You inch along on foot-chafed trepidation
Defying Satan’s law of gravitation,
God’s balance-pole inside your hand.
Below, the audience is cheering,
Your equipoise of faith precludes all fearing—
Your toes assert their knowing, nimble grasp.
The platform, once so far, now’s nearing.
Step upon it! Crowd gives out a gasp—
Satan curses with a hoarse and rueful rasp.