Here is my heart, O Holy Life:
ancient with the dust of stars,
new as the day I was born.
What use can it possibly have
if it beats only for itself?

Here is my soul, O Mystery:
reluctantly tethered to flesh,
marked with scars and calluses.
Who else can recognize it
and bless it with peace?

Here is my testimony, Sweet Story,
by which I mean: the tangle
of sins and lessons and graces
that comprise the work of love.
It needs a much better ending.

Here I am, showing up, O Presence:
a bit of dew joining the stream
that pours down the mountain.
Will you meet me, I pray, where
the river’s mouth opens to sing of unity?

And when “here” is not at all, O Light,
as so often is the case — whether by
freedom or fear or restless flight —
will you be the guide by which we know
our lost hearts are not alone?