Who is that praying?
The voice is my own,
But the thoughts are so foreign.
My appeals fly upward,
Seeking the ear of my heavenly Father,
But they’re different from anything I ever thought I wanted.

Hopelessness is a friend to me.
That tall, thin man came shuffling down the path,
Dressed in his finest black suit and hat,
The sound of his shuffling footsteps,
Punctuated by the tap, tap, tap, of his cane.
He tucked it under his arm,
As he stood before my door,
And with long bony fingers,
He rapped his knuckles against the wood.
After a moment, he turned the knob,
And, removing his hat, he ducked inside.
Darkness and silence welcomed him,
For within he found neither hero nor idol;
After all,
Who could ever carry this burden of hope?
What could ever contain it?
Satisfied, he left,
And producing a pad and pen from his jacket pocket,
He posted a notice upon the door.
But Hopelessness is an agent of the Father,
For immediately His presence rushed in to fill the house,
That no person or object could occupy.

This is Your hand, Father,
Sure and evident!
This is Your work!
A mighty work that, because of my fear,
I never could have started;
But You are not constrained by man’s emotions.
So, Father, let me pray for Your will in my life,
For Your light of hope cuts through the fear,
And illuminates the good.