O Creator of my earthly dwelling,
just as a house, Lord, do I live within my body.
How quickly I forget its capacities.
Look upon me, Jesus, son of David,
with great mercy.
Upon my body.
Upon our bodies,
As the body.
AND the lost bodies trapped and twisted and covered and
in the mouth half-swallowed holy Lord will You not
have mercy on those who know not what they do?
For folly feels familiar to our wooly coats.
For there are those in Your Body - or cloaked convincingly as Your Body, as
it is not authentically You -
who have tortured and twisted and deceived in the likeness of the dance of the slithery beast.
We have breathed in yet again the dirt
and sinned against the very head.
Against the very breath.
Against the very stitchings of us.
How dare we be given the opportunity to fail so detrimentally?
To destroy all that which You have entrusted us? Again, and again and again.
Have mercy, Jesus, son of David,
that you will do us this kindness
and reknit
all that we have yanked free from Your workings into what we swear to now be only an irreconcilable knot that must be cut away
that must be thrown out
that must be started completely anew,
and instead, O Creator, reveal to us how Your fingers are fit for the task of untangling
and continuing such a piece to behold.
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