Beggar’s Yelp
Son of David, I
have nothing but my filthy rags
and my wounds, my static place
beside this wall, my
cracked and open hands, the dirt
upon my swollen skin, the cracks
in my voice as I cry
out to You; my beggar’s yelp.
Your crown is hidden,
yet I see
You for who You really are,
and You, for better
or for worse, seem to see
and hear me.
Son of David, do not – please –
leave me sitting begging here;
I will cry, and I will beg;
there is nothing else for me.
The Consolations of Writing 