An Invocation
Unto you, Lord. Unto you, Lord God of the Worlds, I turn. And even when I do not know that I am turning, I turn to you. Your print is everywhere, and everywhere divine. Where can I look and I do not see you? Into myself? But I encompass you, who compass me from every corner, for I am sin and you forgiveness and I cannot live except it be by you. My life itself is yours. No, when I look at me I see the thing that you have done. Then where can I look and I do not see you? The city? Hot with human enmity, cold with old mortality, the city? Busy and fatigued; kissing below back alley stairs, lips as limp as rotten violets; and children cursing like their parents, parents careless; parties for wasted wealth on Saturday night, exhausted Sunday morning; cars and lights and sirens; ointments, rouges, polishes, colognes and coin—the city? Turning to the city, do I turn from you? No, my Lord, for you are in the city. In all the affairs of humankind, you are there. You were not ashamed to be born...