The Fighter

Most days I feel like a boxer, a few years beyond his prime, haven taken one too many punches to the head.
My face is bloodied, battered, bruised, and broken.
My eyes all but swollen shut, barely able to see my opponent.
My ribs are cracked, and each breath is more difficult than the last one.
My hands are a mangled mess, shattered knuckles, creaky joints, taped too tightly inside my boxing gloves.
My legs are sore, my knees and feet ache, my body wobbles beneath its own weight.
I'm not sure what keeps me standing, leaning on my opponent, holding onto the ropes.
Help me Father, it's all I can muster just to stay upright.
I don't want to throw in the towel yet.
Please God, help...