Lord, I am not strong.

The rowan fights the breeze in murmured song.

At dusk, the dappled trees; another day:

Your time stands long.

Lord, misshapen clay

Bears down to crush my soul; and, anyway,

If lame would be made whole, then what care I?

You stay away.

Lord, I live a lie.

Reach to Your fired, leaping artist sky:

Teach me to listen, sleeping on the lake;

Or let me die.

I am not strong, but

Lord, Your time stands long.