Skip to content

Log Out

×

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.

 

 

 

Image depends on its subscribers and supporters. Join the conversation and make a contribution today.

+ Click here to make a donation.

+ Click here to subscribe to Image.


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

Receive ImageUpdate, our free weekly newsletter featuring the best from Image and the world of arts & faith

* indicates required