These hands were made to serve; these hands were made to heal.
How can I offer help to others when I am not whole myself, my Lord?
Will they not say to me, “physician, heal thyself”?
I am anguished, not in pain or death, but in sickness of heart,
Because of the longings for which I am patiently waiting.
What good is a map, or a known destination, if one has no means to travel?
What good is a calling if the road is not traversable, if the mountain is unassailable?
What good are gifts I cannot use, like so much scuba gear in the snow?
The wicked scorn me at every turn, the righteous mock me.
Is it truly beneficial to serve the Lord, to keep his covenants?
I have fought, fought, Your precepts to Obey;
Sought, sought, Your words alone to say.
Still I will keep faith, Your words of faith stir my soul and quicken me.
I will press on, to dare that mountain, so unassailable—that road, so treacherous.
I know not what You know, I cannot think what You think.
I will not call out—as dearly as my soul is tempted—call out as clay to the potter.
Be my strength, my courage, my song of resolution in Your will and Your way.
Others see me as old fashioned, or strange, or crazy;
Yet I will be more, so much more if it is Your will for me to be.
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