The razor tight rope I walk for love,
Drank the repentance spilt from my knees;
These hands that cannot pray unless they hold him,
Bound the prayer cord about my hips like a chastity belt,
Cutting off circulation.
The saints hold me like a wounded thief on the cross,
Telling me the hows & whys don’t matter in sacrifice,
If I trust to the ends of creation;
But the song of glory is stuck in my throat,
And I will not render unto God what is his.