A Man Carrying His Cross

O Dear Lord! I`m real bushed to bear my shabby cross. It is so hard an` I`m collapsed, legs sinking under loss. I close my eyes and have a scene: a flock of men on a road. By viewless power it is set, in its strict limit hold. And one by one they move along the way in single file, marking a day with a white stone, bearing crosses the while. As well I drag mine on the ground with might and main forlorn. To me their crosses are just found not to be very long. Being very tired, drop my log and saw a little part, for me to carry, furthermore, for it just to be short. I keep on going, soon I see a point of destination. There`s an abyss in front of me, I cannot reach the nation. Those people, without any buzz, to join the parts together, put heavy crosses over abyss, of two evils the lesser. I stand alone. It is my fault. My easy cross fell down. I cannot pass, alas,... that part... a lump felt in my throat. I open eyes and have a scene: here lies my shabby cross. By viewless power it is set, I have to take it, Gosh! (from a Christian parable)