I believe
in God, maker of heaven and earth,
and in the Son, and in the Spirit that ministers to me.
“Batter my heart;”
I prayed Donne’s prayer to the three-personed God.

God granted my prayer
and the Church, with the slightest assistance
from the World,
played a willing part
in the bruising game but wants no part
of healing me.

Granted,
I lost long ago the ability to form coherent sentences,
and what would it matter, given my complete terror of life and barracuda
believers, were I blessed again with a silver tongue?

Would that I could be granted
one wish more and might find some relief
from persistent battering in sure, safe place
to lay my head, be protected from
further dis-integration, welcomed into the fold.

  Granted,
  that may be too much to ask.

You believe
in God, maker of heaven and earth,
and in the Son, and in the Spirit that ministers to you.
“Keep me safe;”
you prayed for protection to the good shepherd of care.

God granted your prayer
and the Church, with the slightest assistance
from the World,
played a willing part
in protection, fencing you in, but wants no part
of changing you.

Granted,
you mill about, magnetic personality attracting the flock,
and forget there are those of us forced so far beyond fertile fields of favor
that our souls bear scars that make the faithful cringe.

Would that you could be granted
one wish more and might find some relief
from persistent narrowing in greater courage
to risk the unknown of stormy seas,
surrender and truly rest in the wide arms of God.

  Granted,
  that may be too much to ask.