I wish for guidance, to know the path, yet it is so clear. If I say I do not see it, I fool myself.
Yet I stray. I cry out again for guidance and again it is clear.
Is it tragic how willfully blind am I, that I deafen myself to your message? That I sulk in anguish, feeling alone?
This dramatic self-pity ill befits the child of the king, whose nursery is a palace.
I will cease my wailing, Lord. The way is clear.