* * *
Kyrie eleison,
the weight of pain has worn me down these long years
so much that I have lost my faith in sabbath rest
and the hope of healing no longer
visits my deepest dreams.
Christe eleison,
I have longed to lean back and feel the sun’s smile
on my face, my neck, my breast, my open palms
but there is only the ground to watch
as it passes beneath my feet.
Kyrie eleison,
for my soul still repeats its prayers and praises
but my body can no longer watch your coming
like a boat as it returns home from storm
or the sun as it rises over the hills.
* * *
Kyrie eleison,
this is the yoke of my days, the destiny of my flesh
to bear ridicule for which I am not at fault,
but oh! My God and my Savior —
can you not rebuild cities?
Christe eleison,
what is the mercy and love of God among us?
What is the appropriate prayer of just one
for relief, when generations
weep for restoration?
Kyrie eleison,
upon you I have leaned for my whole life
like the staff by which I move and live;
do not let my faithfulness to you
by shamed by doubt.
* * *
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