God, help,
when it’s beyond
me. . .
or I just won’t
take any step
to help myself. . .

I think I want to do Thy work
not just because
it’s flowing in my blood
and humming in my body’s breath
and buzz,

but also since
it stands to sense,
it’s the one way
in the Universe
to Happiness and Health. . .

so if
I’ve piled stuff over,
the well-laid plan
of how I could
begin this task,
I may have to stretch and reach
or even climb
to find it,
if I can
where it may be buried like a mine
upon some dusty, cluttered shelf.

And for that,
to help me help me
I may need to
my plea. . .
though risking thus
and sing out
for Thy help.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Prayer and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

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