I cannot pray, my Lord, I cannot pray…
I locked the door to you and
cannot find the key to open it.

Since childhood
– now I lay myself myself to sleep –
You always heard,
but now You seem to rest
and slumber deep.

I know, my Lord, it isn’t so!
You’re always there, cupping Your ear
with nail-torn hand, resting the other
on your Father’s arm, waiting . . . waiting!

My prison has a door which only locks
from the inside, yet, I cannot escape.

My prison has a window,
a cross-barred, grimy window,
When night is gone,
my tumbling thoughts are gone,
I pull myself up on the bars,
and look through the cross
longing for the dawn of grace.

I know that soon You will whisper:
My son, my son . . . long ago,
one day, long ago,
I saw you put your key
on the ledge of that cross . . .
did you forget?