Is this how Thou created this world
Raising it from a heap of impossibilities,
Erecting hued warmth in a void cold,
Patterning our means by Thy precedence?

But what means have I only yet mortal
To fend this inhuman siege in time?
This horde that enters life’s castle 
And marauds upon all by a whim.

My will is dormant like a withered reed,
My nerves are dried up brooks of force,
My heart resembles a battleground 
Where hopes lay slain without remorse.

Take now my charge, make these battles Thine,
Be not so distant, imperturbable and divine.