God of eternity, gracious with failure, how can you so mercifully act?
Against the indicted, so worthy of scarring, and eagerly sowing in black?
Truly, there must be, a source of your pleasure, outside, and so far apart from us,
For otherwise, there would be, nothing but animus, raining down, over our heads.
Sanctify! Sanctify! Cries out, the saints, so named only though your attribution.
I beg you: work in me, purification! I have only gifted contrition–
This penitent heart, you’ve given me graciously, is breaking not to be mended,
Unless my Lord frees me, by attrition of folly, and bides my bale suspended!
How may I toil? Here under the sun? – Surely in vanity! Were I to linger…
To languidly wrestle, weary to the last, unchained– though unchanged and unable?
Please! My Lord, take me, lest I creep again, into pride and, in vanity, stumble!
Command me! Command me! You are God; I am dust! Strengthen me, please! In you, I trust.
The thorns and thistles, all prick and goad me, pressing me on, bloodily, unto the end,
I haggard, walking, all by your mercy, stumble and crumble all over again.
I scream in the night, my Lord: would you free me? I desperately petition release!
Let there be hardship, the world about me, but of thorns, within, let me be free!
And then… to the cross… I guiltily glance, I am broken, beyond mortal repair.
My lips quivering; silenced,
My heart pattering; quickened,
My knees shaking; were brought to the ground.
My eyes tearful; fixated,
My hands wrung; were abated,
My soul bound; remembered your glory.
My Lord, my life is bound under your dominion! Do with me, Regent, as you will!
My cries have all stopped, all their complaints have quelled upon, your perfect and righteous hill.