The Torah That Didn't Fix Me

 

“The Torah That Didn’t Fix Me”

I learned Your words like iron and stone,

But kept my throne—still all my own.

I stacked up pages, proud and sure,

Yet stayed the same—unclean, impure.

I wore the verses like a crown,

While secret dust still dragged me down.

I called it “study,” called it “light,”

But dodged the war inside the night.

Because the truth is hard to bear:

My heart wants payment, not to care.

It wants a God who serves my plan,

A holy stamp for selfish man.

So when You hid, I took offense,

Like I deserved a recompense.

My mouth turned Pharaoh—Peh Ra grin,

And holy words became my sin.

Then came the crack—no place to run,

No taste in gold, no warmth in sun.

I saw my Torah had a cost:

Without the work, the Light is lost.

So here’s my plea—no clever art:

Don’t feed my brain—reform my heart.

Take this dust and raise it high,

Make bestowal my battle-cry.

Let me bless the goal before I read,

Not for applause—but to be freed.

Let Torah be Your clothing near,

And let me find the Wearer here.

Make me “poor” till I truly crave,

Till every prayer becomes a wave.

Penny by penny, join my cries,

Till faith is born behind my eyes.

And when You give—don’t let me steal

Back into self, back into deal.

Make me a guest who loves the Host,

Receiving You—forgetting “most.”

Break me clean, then build me true,

Not “what I get,” but what I do:

To serve the Ten, to serve the Name—

Till Torah, Israel, and You are the same.