Number 4

Our longing heart has brimmed over with complaint. Where is the edge of a robe we might cling to for help? It was not right to torment us any further; we are already pale and broken, so what good is our defeat to anyone? We raise our hands to heaven in prayer for you; what more could come from our hands besides prayer? There is still hope that we may find all we lack, now that our very being has worn itself down to nothing. Tonight, when no listening ear lay in wait for a moan, our faint songs rang out as loud cries of grief. We won a victory over ourselves, nothing more; the only arrow that ever flew true from our bow struck us. Our beginning comes only after the end of time itself; the night of resurrection is our first dawn of creation. Clever one, show off your skill no further; our drunken, careless heart will take in no learning. Generous one, stop mocking our wretchedness; for us, sitting in the dust of humiliation has been an honor.