I took a look at Galatians, Paul’s list of virtues there,
And wondered if the Holy Spirit's fruits were ripe and fair.
Love, joy, and peace sounded great—who wouldn’t want to start?
But I checked my daily calendar and felt my racing heart.

Patience? That one's missing; I honk in traffic jams.
I blame my lack of kindness on those supermarket clams.
I think that my self-control got lost one Friday night—
I saw a pizza on the menu and thought, "Just one more bite!"

Gentleness and goodness? Those virtues seem quite quaint,
But I'm more like a tempest and not much like a saint.
Faithfulness sounds noble, but my Netflix shows are late.
Can I be consistent? I’d need a new update.

I fidget and I grumble, and sometimes, sure, I pout.
Can the Holy Spirit help me work these grumpy kinks all out?
Maybe there's a workshop, a self-improvement plan,
Where I could learn to be the type who turns the other hand.

But here's a little secret, don't tell it to my mom:
When I'm supposed to be quite still, I'm busy dropping bombs.
My tongue's a mighty weapon, it slices and it stings,
The Holy Spirit’s fruits and I are rather different things.

Still, there's hope—I hear it—like the echo in the breeze,
That I can start to cultivate these virtues if I please.
So I will plant a garden, and weed out all my spite,
In hopes that all these fruits might grow, if not by day, by night.

I'll work on love and patience, joy and peace, it's true,
And maybe by my hundredth year, I'll start to think it through.
But just in case I'm slow to learn and don't quite meet the goal,
I'll keep a little forgiveness handy for my soul.