by Billy Jaan

Created on: January 30, 2007   Last Updated: May 11, 2007

I know it doesn't always show. I know I so often forget it was You, not me, that brought me thus far, whilst I bask in false glory from those who applaud the charade. But I am grateful, and I do give thanks, and pray and pray and pray that You forgive my mindless self-preoccupation.

I would thank You for so many things You think I take for granted. Each morning, these eyes that see again and limbs that stir and join a day held waiting whilst I sleep. A day that offers up a chance to make good on failed promises and hopes stale in the crushing tedium of day to day ordinary levels of living. I give thanks that winter is held at bay that little longer by autumn sunshine....of hot water on skin....of first chill on face and, in the distance, sounds of coming and going and where I might be.

I would thank-you for these hands and lips that let me speak of who I would be and where I would go, this heart that knows from love and from loss how much deeper and further it has yet to find, these thoughts that create and propel and guide me closer, then faster, then further from and sometimes nearer to where You would have me be.

I would thank-you for that glimpse of sanity, for that reminder of hope, for that smile from the stranger and the chance to touch one who is sad or alone. I would. I would in every moment release to you all claims of endeavour, all gains, creations, the small and the great, the celebration, victory and joy.

I know I stake my prayers in fear and wishes and hopes and just one more request that you should grant me what I seek. I know I ask and ask and ask. I know I kneel the most when I fall and find no other solace than Your sound, no other place to run or hide or find. I know, oh Most Beloved Creator, oh Lord who knows my every thought and breath before its human existence. I know. Forgive my delusions, my distractions of worldly existence. Fill me with song in celebration of You, that I would sing Your glory even when unheard.

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