My soul is the infant
searching for the comfort of warm milk.
My soul is the bodiless
searching for temple.
My soul yearns for rest
from life's weary roads.
I lift my soul to You, Oh Father.
Pull me close to You, dearest Lord,
and comfort this infant.
Hold my hand,
and let me know You are here.
In the depths of my being,
I remember Your comfort,
just as I remember the comfort of the womb.
It was there, in darkness, that I first knew You,
for You called my name.
Here I am, Lord.
Older and broken.
Submitted to Catholic Prayers in January 1996 by Margaret A. Davidson.
© 1996 by Margaret A. Davidson, All Rights Reserved