I am a clay pot
or an earthen vase,
made to be filled
with the water of your being,
with the wine of your love.
And I am not enough: not worthy
to pray, to bless, to counsel, not worthy
to look upon your face, not worthy
that you should radiate in me, not worthy
that you should use my lips to speak your wisdom,
nor my hands to bring the comfort of your presence!—
my lips, my hands, which how often have uprisen
in a parody or a paucity of love?
I know nothing of your goodness,
nothing of your greatness,
nothing of your mercy,
nothing of your love,
save only what little
you have revealed to me.
To one I admonish:
“your prayer is too self-centered.”
“surrender, and let Him heal your wounds.”
But when I come before you—
How, Lord, you must sigh.
Three hours here and still all I can say
is “not me, not me,”
when I must say only “you, you,
This is day 24 of LABIA MUNDA, a series of forty poems during the forty days of Lent.