Dear Mary, Sing Me to Sleep

Dear Mary, have mercy on me,
child of Luther. Have mercy
on this child whose family
went back across the cool Tiber.

Descended from
Wycliffe and (forgive me) cruel King Henry.

Born from Calvin and bloody Cromwell,
poetic Donne and contrite Newton,
wise Brooks and Watson.

I am of hell-breathing
Jonathan Edwards and
cigar-smoking Spurgeon and
fiery Billy Sunday.

I come, too, from brothers Wesley,
all the way to the crowd-drawing
Graham with his crusades,
and a thousand others.

Dear Mary, I love your Son and I love
His Word.

But sometimes, I want to hide from
the passion of all those great men,
those sires of my heart.

They feel too large for me.
Before them I feel a sickly child.

Would it be blasphemy of me
to say that sometimes, even your
sweet wounded son seems to
great for me to approach?

How can He forgive me?

Sometimes I just want to lie with your
arms around me, still.

Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners now,
and at the hour of our death.

And if you would, sing me
to sleep and shush the others
quiet while I rest.

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