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.