See, banks and brakes
Now, leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes
Them; birds build — but not I build; no, but strain,
Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou Lord of life, send my roots rain
~Gerard Manley Hopkins from “Thou art indeed just, Lord”
As I look out through a tear-streaked window at the beginning of this dark day,
I fear I’m inadequate to the task before me.
Parched and struggling patients line my schedule;
they are anxious and already weary and barren, seeking something, anything
to ease their distress in a hostile world,
preferably an easy pill to swallow.
Nothing that hurts going down.
While others are thriving around them, they wilt and wither, wishing to die.
Lord of Life, equip me to find the words to say that might help.
May it be about more than genetics, neurotransmitters and physiology.
In this dry season for young lives, send your penetrating rain.
Reach down and shake our roots
and slake our thirst.