Number 2

When I made the Prophet of the ascension my intercessor, I lifted my needy heart to a state of contentment and self-sufficiency. I am the disciple of an old master whose humility built step upon step, raising even the ascension itself higher. The dust of poverty is my throne, the brand of love my crown; it costs me nothing to kick aside an actual throne and crown. Since I gambled on love and let go of all but the Beloved, let me be a heretic if I ever counted the winning card. Though I seem far off, set at the tip of your arrow, your strong drawing hand has made me the master of the target. When your kind ear pretends not to need us, the enemy wails; you take your toll from our lament with sweet, careless grace. You have never seen a night, for wherever you are it is nothing but day, so you cannot know the state of our pitch black nights. Since, like the Generous One, I have lived on a handful of the dust of contentment, I have satisfied the needs of a hundred beggars as poor as myself.