In synagogue’s hush, where whispers take flight,
I call to the heavens with all of my might.
But oh, how I fumble, my words all askew,
My pride’s like a rooster, who struts and who crows too!
With sorrow I see it, my heart’s selfish beat,
It loves its own shadow, it craves its own seat.
I thought I was worthy, more pious, more grand,
Yet truth laughs at falsehood, and I’m but a man.
The pain of my lowliness stings like a thorn,
My flaws laid bare, in truth I’m reborn.
No wisdom I boast, no virtue to claim,
Just love for the One who can heal all my shame.
Oh, Creator of truth, hear this fool’s humble plea,
I’m farthest from You, yet I long to be free.
No finery here, just a soul worn and bare,
In truth I now call You—please show me You’re there!
With a chuckle I see it, my ego’s grand jest,
It thought it could bargain, be better than best.
But love pulls me closer, through pain’s bitter gate,
In truth’s simple mirror, I’m near to Your state.
