it hurts, Lord, it hurts.
thy will be done
i pray
each day
four—five—six times.
have i meant it once,
all my life?
it hurts.
thy will will be done.
and will that make the pain stop?
will that bring me peace?
will that bring me what i want?
it's so hard to pray for your will.
take mine away...but don't...
not yet, in the great evasion of st. Augustine.
and i look back to you—
hanging on your awe-full tree.
it hurts, Lord, it hurts.

poems i have written: