Our holy God, our father, most merciful,
This day is closing, not a perfect end…
Here I approach your throne and do pretend
I am not a bad person, not sinful.
My hands, Lord Jesus, I present: they are full
of blood, of shame, of deeds I can’t defend;
my mouth is full of lies and words to offend;
my brain a star of doubts – I feel hell’s mighty pull

I sin in success, I sin in failure
Yet brave I come, to touch Emanuel’s robe,
(my disgusting hands on a Person so pure)
but every day I ask you, Lord, to probe
my heart, which is so young and immature,
You know my soul; you walked upon this globe

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741