You, O Lord, can see the condition of my heart;
Its torn apart by sin.
The clanging, awful din of chains
and fetters brings to life the claims
of emptiness e’er entertained
by bold, brash captains sailing night-seas with no stars.
You, O Lord, have knowledge of the darkness in my spirit;
this abysmal pit is trackless.
Without your lamp the cats and crows
would howl and call as they scattered my bones
and brought my head as a prize ‘fore the thrones
of the kings of hatred and death and sulfur and tricks.
You, O Lord, can see that I am Corinth;
I war within my body.
My breastplate is not your righteousness
my shield of faith is pocked with rust
and the belt of truth ‘round my waist wears thin.
O Lord, I needst that cup which overfloweth.
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