Pray

when all your soul

a tiptoe stands

in wistful eagerness

to talk with God;

put out your hands,

God bends to hear;

it would be sin

not to draw near.

 

Pray

when gray inertia

creeps through your soul,

as through a man

who fights the cold,

then growing languid

slumbereth,

and slumbering

knows not

it is death.

 

Pray

when swamped

with sin and shame

and nowhere else

to pin the blame

but your own will

and waywardness;

God knows you,

loves you nonetheless.

 

So … pray.

 

Taken by permission from “Ruth Bell Graham’s Collected Poems,” by Ruth Bell Graham. © 1977, 1992, 1997, The Ruth Bell Graham Literary Trust