Lord and poetic creator,
who sings songs over your children,
whose word never fails,
succeeding in all your purposes—
I look at this blank page,
patiently waiting for its poem.
My heart feels frail,
unable to hold weight.
My thoughts are broken,
revealing my spirit.
My words taste stale,
having already been said
by others more adept than me.
To the incarnate Word,
who became flesh
and tabernacled among us,
who sympathizes with our weakness
(and mine are many)—
Fix my hope in you,
not in what I can muster.
You give words as they are needed.
You are truth and the fountain of all knowledge.
You established the world embedded with
May I reflect, even if in a small way:
truth about the brightness of your glory,
or the darkness of the world;
the silly irony of a simple truth,
or loving solidarity with my fellow-sojourners.
May I wash my readers’ feet
with these words;
rather than polish my ego
with their sophistication.
Put these words through fire
so the dross burns away.
And leave them hot enough,
to warm the hearts
of those who read them.
Sovereign God, creator Lord—
despite my weaknesses,
fill this page with truth, beauty, and goodness.
Whether it finds home in another’s heart,
makes its way into future work,
or even if it’s only between you and me,
this poem is yours.
For more and better liturgies see Every Moment Holy by Douglas McKelvey