It's all I can do
to eat from Your hand, everyday
savouring Your grace
in darkness and in light.
How You feed me!
Through the delights of my bed
or on the bathroom floor -
what difference does it make?
I'm on my knees anyway,
poor, broken, dead.
A servant with many masters,
true slave to only One.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem