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

to betray.