Menu

Poetry

A psalm of Isaak raised in unaccustomed stillness

With unclean lips, at least, and yea
with unclean hands, encumbered heart,
congested, lo these many years,
with no small measure of regret
and sin’s particulate debris,
by these and countless other dear
impediments, I stoop to find
my knees. And on occasion You—
whose dimly figured Face I dare
pursue to searing clarity—
have condescended, acquiesced
to grant what little I might bear.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe now.

Related Poetry

It’s Late

By

Gemma Gorga

Cloudless

By

Christopher Howell

double exposure of the top of a verdant green tree branching onto a pale blue sky, overlaid with a photo of five-petaled white flowers in a cluster on top.

Imagineer of Variety

By

John Terpstra

I Stand and Knock

By

Daniel Priest

Pin It on Pinterest