Make Me, Oh God, The Prey Of

Your Joy Is Your Sorrow Unmasked. And The Same Well From Which Your Laughter Rises Was Oftentimes Filled With Your Tears. And How Else Can It Be? The Deeper That Sorrow Carves Into Your Being, The More Joy You Can Contain. Is Not The Cup That Holds Your Wine The Very Cup That Was Burned In The Potter's Oven? And Is Not The Lute That Soothes Your Spirit, The Very Wood That Was Hollowed With Knives?

An Eye For An Eye, And The Whole World Would Be Blind.

That Deed Which In Our Guilt We Today Call Weakness, Will Appear Tomorrow As An Essential Link In The Complete Chain Of Man.

And When One Of You Falls Down He Falls For Those Behind Him, A Caution Against The Stumbling Stone. Ay, And He Falls For Those Ahead Of Him, Who Though Faster And Surer Of Foot, Yet Removed Not The Stumbling Stone.

The "i" In Me, My Friend, Dwells In The House Of Silence, And Therein It Shall Remain For Ever More, Unperceived, Unapproachable.