Monday, November 8, 2021

Stricken, they crawl along the floor from where they sleep to where they beg.

Do I have alms to spare, Lord? Do I have love?

Miserly, tight, immobile as a fist: am I the stricken one?

Let me open, Lord, and be the outstretched hand. Let me be your will.

(Letter #2,494)