Do prayers truly reach Your throne room

being half-asleep, much like the glass

half-empty / half-full

chosen wisely

the cup, overflowing

with water turned to wine.


The miracle of Your grace

saving the choicest fruits of the vine

wedding guest handiwork

in this undeserved union

meeting You at the altar anyway

with all that we’ve got

clothed in rags, thinking we’re dressed

in our Sunday best.

Defrocked of our self-importance

to truth

and shedding our snaky old wineskins

for new.


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