Oh, great Author, where is Your pen? It was firmly in my grasp, as I in Yours. With sudden transparency, it is gone. Was not Your book unfinished? Surely, bottomless is Your ink well! Aren't I Your quill? Are my barbs now afterfeather and my rachis broken? Does my calamus no longer hold Your blood? No worth to be dragged along the face of Your page? Praise is given to you Lord for allowing Your expression for so long through me. Lost is my lover. I cast myself into your depths Father and lose myself. May you grow me into the river's fruit and blow Your breath through me. Ever resounding my lament as a flute shouts out Your glories. Amen.


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