Lord, when I stand, no path before me clear,
when every prayer seems prisoner of my pain,
come with a gentleness which calms my fear;
Lord of my helplessness, my victory gain.
When all my prayers no answer seem to bring,
and there is silence in my deepest soul,
when in the wilderness I find no spring,
Lord of the desert places, keep me whole.
When the dark lord of loneliness prevails,
and, all defeated, joy and friendship die,
come, be my joy, such love that never fails;
pierce the self pity of my shadowed sky.
When as did Thomas I presume thee dead,
feeling and faith itself within me cold,
freshen my lips with wine, my soul with bread,
banish my poverty with heaven's gold.