Friday, May 15, 2009

Good men die before their time. Their wives and children weep with none to care. The old go daft with loneliness. The young turn sour. Faith's forsaken. Hope takes wing. And charity, the greatest of the three, is scarce as water in a drought.
And what have I done for God or fellowmen through all of this? My war is all within. For fifty years the only foe I've battled with has been myself. Above all else, I've prayed.

What's prayer? It's shooting shafts into the dark. What mark they strike, if any, who's to say? It's reaching for a hand you cannot touch. The silence is so fathomless that prayers like plummets vanish into the sea. You beg. You whimper. You load God down with empty praise. You tell him sins that he already knows full well. You seek to change his changeless will. Yet Godric prays the way he breathes, for else his heart would wither in his breast. Prayer is the wind that fills his sail. Else waves would dash him on the rocks , or he would drift with witless tides. And sometimes, by God's grace, a prayer is heard.

posted by Matt McKechnie @ 7:53 PM Comments: 0

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