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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.


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