Dale Lloyd

Why should I pray? I ask again—what difference does it make?
My words rise into silence
as the ground beneath me shakes.

This complaint is not my own;
the record bears it true.
I hear it in the voices
of all who once drew near to You.

Anger braided into longing,
hope entangled with despair—
these are the words Your people used
then dared to call it prayer.

So many prayers have filled the air,
so many words been said:
some breathed in a whisper,
some flung upward from a place of dread.

I will not weigh them on a scale,
nor measure what they mean.
I bring what is within my chest
in hope it will be seen.

What shape must prayer be given?What measure must it meet?
And if it falters in its rising,
will it lay shattered at Your feet?

I do not come with answers.
I do not come with art.
I come the way they always came—
pouring out my heart.