Despair Not

Despair Not
A Poem

Grant clarity of my own sin, blindness to others—
Not focused on the splinter, but instead the tree—
Surrounded then by saints, sisters, and brothers,
I dare not assert who is blind and who can see.

Grant a sadness and pang before my rest—
As if I’ll be the only one consumed in the Fire.
Would that the Staretz heart beat in my chest—
Voluntarily drumming at the funeral pyre.

Grant the brink of hell itself, then pull me back—
In this, teach me how to pray and how to fast—
Humbled like Sisoes, changed like Moses the Black—
The flames burn, melt, and cast.

May I carry my cross and climb crucifixion’s tree—
Then sit myself back, pray, and have some tea.

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