I kneel here on the stone floor,
looking up, trying to see, Lord,
but dimly, through these sockets,
dark in my cowl.
Like this skull I hold
I feel empty, Lord,
tired, and my knees are cold.
I have nothing if I do not have you,
Lord. I am listening. Waiting.
I have shed all I can – property,
family, money and the comforts
of life. My robe is threadbare,
the modest covering of my order.
No excess. No indulgence.
I have scourged myself with the
knotted rope, denied and
isolated myself, eating just enough
to keep body and soul attached.
(though sometimes, forgive me
Lord, my stomach longs for wine
and hot risotto stuffed with prawns)
I will be a shell like this skull; I will
wait to hear you, Lord, but your voice
is so faint and less frequent than before.
They think I am in deep communion
with you, Lord, here on my knees –
my knees that are cold and aching.
They think I have all the answers,
all the sweet messages, wisdom,
understanding. What I have is an
emptiness, and cold knees, Lord.
I have to tell you I feel despondent,
lightheaded, confused, old before
my time. I dream of things I dare not
speak of, Lord. Have pity.
I long for a soft, gentle touch, Lord,
a woman in bed with sheets.
I am being honest, Lord, I need
to hear you soon. I need to know that
there is more beyond this hard life
than the empty sockets of this skull.
Comfort me, Lord; soon, Lord.
Zurbaran 1635-39. National Gallery London