A bug on a plate, without hiding place.
An ox before a plow, directed and laboring.
A hare, discovered and darting from the garden.
How you nurture and love all these things I am, Lord – in my quick fear, my labor, my exposure. You build a hedge of protection around me and I scarce notice.
Child of a king, let me rest easy, Lord, and walk through this day unspotted.
Thy will be done.