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why do we squirm and wiggle,
writhe and fidget,
analyse, plot and fret?
are you not able,
are your resources somehow limited,
is anything you do left to chance?
you told us
on our own understanding.
of your thoughts
you reminded us
that with each
with splendor and glory.
Hide me in the shelter of your wings.
Fill my heart with the peace of knowing you.
Strengthen my arms to bend a bow of bronze.
All my times are in your hands.
© 2001 (9 november) john r. chase