Many years ago, I wrote this poem after a long day.  The boys were little, and holding my hand as they fell asleep.  I was tired and grumpy, and I realized that I wanted what they wanted; just a little comfort.

We all get tired.  Tired of work, tired of illness, tired of endless political and economic struggles.  Tired of arguments and lies.  Sometimes, all we can do is hold up our hands to Christ, whose incarnation gave us hands, scarred though they are, to reach and grasp.

My Jesus I am tired

My Jesus I am tired,

and the day has been so long,

and I have done so little well,

and done so much so wrong;

now let me lie within your arms,

or simply hold my hand

and let me cry a little while

and know you understand.

Please kiss me on the forehead

as you turn the lights down low

and lie your face against my own

as off to dreams I go.

Then pull the blankets up around

my neck and hold me tight,

and sit beside my bed and whisper

through the long dark night.

Rest well,


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