O Lord, I proclaim Thee, Mountain of Man.
O Lord, I sing Thee, on the Wings of Seraphim.
O Lord, I worship Thee, King of the World.
O Lord, I beg of Thee, let my heart be Your bird.
O Lord, I cherish Thee, Deep Ocean of Might.
O Lord, I see thee, in nature’s beauteous heights.
O Lord, I cannot fathom Thee, I the supplicant poor,
I am the strange daughter begging at Saint Peter’s door.
O Lord, I am forgotten by all but You, undiscerning
to the wealthy, but rich in Your love, gold unfurling
from the Cross, I am awash in the Blood, eat the Bread
of Your Wounds. In Your hazel eyes, I see the Holy Dead –
legions of angels and ancestors: desert bones made Flesh.
Separating Chaff from Wheat, the fires of Heaven your Thresh.
O Lord, I am a wanderer, is there room by Your fireside for one as I?
O Lord, I am lost, stranded atop Golgotha where doves fear to fly.
Only the crow is my companion, picking the meat from my bones.
Is there a chance you can hear me, that to be holy is to be alone?
O Lord, when I dream, I see Hell, O Lord, when I sleep, I sleep
with the Devil. What is the measure of a bed of flies? In the deep
of Seven Demons, I still think Eden is my pasture, I pray for green.