How much of you is my imagination;
how much of you is what you have revealed
in mercy to a lost and wandering nation
with lying tongues, with hearts against you steeled?
I worship you as God of all the ages,
almighty, and all-knowing, and always.
I know, in fairness, my wrongs have earned wages,
a deathly debt which only blood repays.
But can it be you love us as they told us?
And is forgiveness offered free and clear?
With sorrow for our suffering you behold us?
And is each single one your child most dear?
To turn from you were lifelong lonely grief.
I do believe; help you my unbelief.
-HJ Aug. 7, 2010
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