My tepid pen essays the metered climb,
But fails of strength long ‘fore the summit’s rest.
Convicting cadence of the ancient rime
Finds harbor not within my storied quest.
My thirsty spirit seeks the cool relief
Of sanguine words all flushed with melody—
An echo of the crucifixion’s grief,
The whoop of once-blind joy that now can see.
A flowing stream of sweet, felicitous phrase
Would justify the mare by which I’m ridd’n,
Would slake my desperate need to speak in praise
And leave me satisfied with service giv’n.
Oh, happy me! To fail in all I do…
That I may sate myself with only You.