Faint stigmata of fingernails in palm-flesh,
the careful unclenching of the jaw
do not show, but You know,
Anointed with anxiety in the Garden.
If I lay end to end the moments I have spent,
keys in hand, chanting, “okay,
okay,” they may convey me like clouds
to the pulpit to belt out Your praise;
but You, O Key of David, know a rougher road
in minor mode; a finer gate, and so,
what shall I pray?
That this moment, too, shall pass;
that with your help I’ll fail us both