Do I see this world rightly? What illusions do I harbor?
At dawn, I tell myself that you, Lord, support me and give me care. I tell myself of the gift upon gift you have showered upon me, with great expectation of ever more.
These words self-spoken, Lord, are hollow. The proof is in my acting. I rise from my seat and set about making ready to conquer the day. I protect vulnerable areas, I gird myself for battle, I catalog problems to solve.
Where is my faith now? You are a mountain, upon which cities may be built, yet instead I see you as an oak, from which I must dangle.
Lord, let me feel you underfoot. I am supported from below, how possibly could I fall?