You brought me from the womb.
But in those days I swam in eternity
And plucked and grasped as I willed,
Owning all I saw and all
Beholden unto me.
You brought me from the womb, and yet
I neither knew nor took Your hand.
I built houses of hewn stone
And then sat before my empire.
All my days within my plan.
Yet You who brought me forth from my
Mother’s womb, You brought me low.
You pulled down my hewn-stone houses.
You set fire to my plans,
Gave me numbers for my days.
Now I take this scrap-heap house and
Count the stones and count the days and
From this broken altar, give faint praise
To You, who brought me from the womb,
Who taught me to number my days.
If a cut-down tree has hope then
I will find my hope in this:
The one who brought me from the womb
Is from eternity and yet He
Has my days within His plan.
The Consolations of Writing 