Even through the faithless years, I’ve prayed,
(in the tight spots) above
the panic’s roar.
These days my prayers are a
shared quietude,
a silent acquiescence not so
much to God
but to my nature, the
innumerable lifetimes
it will take to subdue it. Asking forgiveness,
all the while believing
everything is ordained and necessary.
This old vase won’t hold
water, cracks of fear
and well worn desire, all the
habitual reasons
for turning away from the
truth of God’s existence
to the provisional comforts
of my own.
Pure praise, said my Lord, is
the best prayer.
But when I can’t pluck up the
courage,
muster enough sincerity then I’m
left with
displaying the raw vitals of
myself,
as much as I dare, for both
of us to view,
using Meher’s example of
silence
to ask for nothing and
receive my wincing due.
O child of God, live so that
your every breath becomes a
prayer.
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