Cleanse me of my iniquity
and wash away my sins.
Laugh, Lord, at my obliquity.
In you laughter begins.
Regard this little steeple.
You gave to the High Plains
a flock of sheep, the people
who drink deep when it rains.
I shall number all the stones
Assyria had laid low.
I shall number all my bones
as David did long ago.
Oh, what a troubled route man took,
descending from the trees:
cave paintings and the printed book
made on his bended knee.
Lord, the broken spirit,
the sorrows in my heart
are much, much to inherit
and hard, hard to impart.
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