Ledger

Hereto, as my soul lies dying, throttled by the winds of change, hobbled by the wrath of time 'til nothing but a gasp remains. There abides a wisp of evil tempered with a shred of grace, an iota of confusion on this saint/sinner's face. I'm not meant to meet my Maker 'til I've done what I must do to set the ledger to Your liking, strike a chord 'twixt me and You. then will I be granted access, evil, grace, confusion mixed, I will need exoneration, all my faults and foibles fixed.