We sometimes catch a melody that haunts;
      who wrote the matching music in our heads?
We slowly work through Nature's secret beds
      and find just one math true - who chose that once?
We see nothing unstained by past bloodshed
      but who saw light new-made, fresh from the cloud?
We speak old metaphors, and we feel proud,
      but who shaped the tongues that talk in his stead?

      How can we grasp the truth we barely feel?
            Open our fists, O God, to drop our flaws.
      How can we taste the fruit we hardly see?
            Open our lips, O God, to praise our Cause.
      How can we know what roads we need to seek?
            Open our ears, O God, to hear your Laws.