O Lord, if only You might pour on me
Abundant grace of Milton’s heavenly muse!
That this gray mind would empty shadows flee
And into golden praise itself would lose.
But Lord, I’m paralyzed with Barak’s fear
and blinded by my Pharasaic sight.
My hearing’s grown as hard as Pharoah’s ear,
While empty echoes rise to Babel’s height.
You, Lord, gave Milton songs of worthy praise
And You alone can cause me to grow bold—
Explode in reminiscent rhythmic phrase—
That I, like him, might sing a song of gold,
No deathly talent hid or Lord denied,
But God in every line be glorified!
© Glenda Mathes