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: 


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