I met a fellow once, who walked alone
from hermitages, temples, shrines and such.
Devoted, yes, ascetic, he had known
of hunger and of seeking Heaven's touch.

He asked me where I journeyed, and I said
that I was lost, misguided, and afraid.
He placed a callused hand upon my head
and told me of a place he once had stayed.

I thanked him for his kindness, and I sat,
my meal sat like a weight upon my chest.
Still half remained; I cursed myself for that:
I never thought to offer him the rest.

So openly we seek Your love and grace,
and hypocrites, we fail to see Your face.

The zeal that led me here is pale and weak;
Your mercy shows now even as I live.
Your Earth, inherited by one so meek
is vastly more than I would ask You give.

The land beneath my feet is as I am,
a temporary thing in endless time.
You drive us as the shepherd drives the lamb,
and slaughter some before they reach their prime.

And as the city towers fell and burned,
You turned a judge's ear toward our pleas.
You lingered overhead until You learned
To love the sight of humans on their knees.

If poorly I can serve, then serve I shall,
until as towers, I, too, burn and fall.

I came here with my words and You in mind,
presuming I had seven songs to write.
However, on arrival now, I find
unworthy words, deficient in Your sight.

Perhaps I could placate You if I knew
your preference in pattern, scheme, and form,
but poetry as pitiful as dust
is fair to you as worship from a worm.

A Lord and King of Kings upon Your throne,
no child of man can offer You a crown;
what can I give, that I and not You own?
Even my life by You was handed down.

To write another crown for You would be
a demonstration of futility.

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