the psalmist and the pretender

what have I,
but these poor hands?
I wring them in worry.
what have I,
but these wretched thoughts?
I am hopelessly pensive.

shame covers me all the day long.
a blanket of isolation shrouds my inner being.
I am the quintessential craven man;
feeble, frail, and fragile

it is in this that I wonder
am I the psalmist
or the pretender?
shall I sing in the sun beams?
or continue to murmur in darkness?

"work, son of man, work
labor, offspring of adam, labor
toil, child of dirt, toil
die, heir of death, die:
return to the dust from whence you came"

Oh God hear this and think of me.
when my blood is poured out on life's altar,
and my days have dwindled down to nothingness,
will I still be heavy on your mind?

surely Oh God,
my cries echo in your being;
surely Father,
they are not distant from your heart.
indeed, you are closer than any sorrow.

and from somewhere in-between the shadows of reality,
transcending space, matter, and time;
you will find me
i know this. you will find me.

and in that moment,
these eyes of mourning,
will become fountains of joy.