The Apologist’s Evening Prayer
From all my lame defeats, and oh! Much more,
From all the victories that I seemed to score;
From cleverness shot forth on Thy behalf,
At which, while angels weep, the audience laugh;
From all my proofs of Thy divinity,
Thou, Who wouldst give no sign, deliver me.
Thoughts are but coins. Let me not trust, instead
Of Thee, their thin-worn image of Thy head.
From all my thoughts, even from thoughts of Thee,
O Thou fair Silence, fall, and set me free.
Lord of the narrow gate and needle’s eye,
Take from me all my trumpery, lest I die.
C. S. Lewis
