My eyes are tired, God, of stories and urgent
News bulletins: football stars hitting girlfriends,
Journalists beheaded by hateful terrorists,
Black boys with their hands held high,
Expecting violence in their streets,
Living another day like tomorrow's never coming.
And my heart is sore with doubt:
The nagging impotence of my faith.
I fear that nothing I do makes any difference,
Not in the huge and holy scheme of things,
Not in the matrix of international posturing
And congressional lethargy and big money elections.
Even my best efforts seem like nothing at all.
So I turn before sleeping to Jesus, my Jesus,
Who nonetheless calls my name,
Who inevitably says, "Come,"
Who promises nothing like 'world peace'
And nothing like 'justice for all,'
But only the kin-dom of God.
He leads me beside still waters,
And to the green fields where
Coyotes play and hawks fly low.
He lays aside my burden and
Takes my hand, "Come."
Where we go tomorrow is his to know:
To the county jail where men dream of second chances;
To a library where neighbors gather
To talk about race and fulfilling the dream;
To a wedding on a hillside where a couple
Make a choice, with tiny rings and huge hearts.
His heart too is broken and tired.
Even his doubt sometimes swallowing faith.
But he knows your light in his darkness,
And he hears your voice in his dark night.
My eyes are tired, God,
But my heart is yours.
I turn again to Jesus, to his kind face,
And I ask for his strength, for his mercy.
Lead me in the way everlasting.
Make my little prayers meaningful and loving.
Amen.
