A Prayer

My God (oh, let me call Thee mine,
Weak, wretched sinner though I be),
My trembling soul would fain be Thine;
My feeble faith still clings to Thee.

Not only for the Past I grieve,
The Future fills me with dismay;
Unless Thou hasten to relieve,
Thy suppliant is a castaway.

I cannot say my faith is strong,
I dare not hope my love is great;
But strength and love to Thee belong;
Oh, do not leave me desolate!

I know I owe my all to Thee;
Oh, TAKE the heart I cannot give!
Do Thou my strength--my Saviour be,
And MAKE me to Thy glory live.

by Anne Brontë

Other poems of BRONTË (67)

Comments (7)

your words spoke of beauty, its frailty, in clay, of birth, creation, nativity, the vessel holding the form of life, to behold, to contain...and mold, according to lifes' continuing hold
What shall it hold? ....i think it holds all you felt while moulding it, hope it was a big vessel, lovely....smiling alana
In centuries to come it may be found whole or broken in the earth's soil to give pleasure to whoever finds it, as we today find treasures in the mud beneath our feet. A lovely creation of a poem in every way. Love and hugs Ernestine XXX
I remember the slippery feel of the clay between the two hands - the left still, providing the anchor, the guide, the other gently easing, loving the pot into shape. What a superb metaphor for the role of a loving parent from the first moment of birth to the final push from the nest. Superb poem, warm and filled with wonder. love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
This was wonderful to read, it hummed along so nicely, and left the impression of the clay spinning on the wheel. Very nice work. Thanks
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