A Prayer of Simon

The universe is
In the palm of your hand.
You arrange and rearrange
The galaxies and the constellations.
You set the laws of the seasons
And the monsoon rain.
Before Abraham, You were.
And, here you are,
Yoked under the unwanted cross
Of our collected iniquities.
The bruised dusts of the street rise
To settle on your bloodied brows.
And your blood turns into petals
Of rose scattered on the street.

In this physical form
Of Cyrenean countenance,
You placed this bird of my migratory spirit;
And made me a man.
Even before I was born,
You set me on this flight,
To be with you, at this hour appointed
In time and the space of history.
Out of this multitude,
You chose Simon, a man without a face.
If I could speak to the time,
It would tell me
I am blessed among men.
If time could name itself,
What name would it choose for itself?
A moment without history, perhaps.

You made me a man
And put me in this world.
So, I suppose, I am of this world,
And if indeed, had You desired
That I be an angel,
You would have surely made me one.
But You didn’t.
Grant me this, O Lord!
Let me live as man among men,
To love and serve You in their midst.
But remember me with mercy
When I come to your kingdom,
Not for the moment I was harnessed
Together with you,
But for those I was not.