Friday, December 16, 2011

But My Hands


Look: my hands are heavy
and red with hot disease. I can't
serve you, Lord; I shouldn't
handle anything at all.
Why do you say to me,

Come here? How dare you want
to touch a sinner, think to risk
glorious security,
certain praise?
This mouth has nothing for you, God.

Or are you truly good
or shameless enough to suffer
the mockery of wise men for this fool?
The horror of it doesn't
horrify you?