from "Lines Scribbled on an Envelope," by Madeleine L'Engle

An excerpt from Madeleine L’Engle’s 1969 poem, “Lines Scribbled on an Envelope while Riding the 104 Broadway Bus”:

There is too much pain
I cannot understand
I cannot pray…

Here I am
and the ugly man with beery breath beside me reminds
me that it is not my prayers that waken your
concern, my Lord;
my prayers, my intercessions are not to ask for your love
for all your lost and lonely ones,
your sick and sinning souls,
but mine, my love, my acceptance of your love.
Your love for the woman sticking her umbrella and her
expensive
parcels into my ribs and snarling, “Why don’t you watch
where you’re going?”
Your love for the long-haired, gum-chewing boy who
shoves the old lady aside to grab a seat,
Your love for me, too, too tired to look with love,
too tired to look at Love, at you, in every person on the
bus.
Expand my love, Lord, so I can help to bear the pain,
help your love move my love into the tired prostitute with
false eyelashes and bunioned feet,
the corrupt policeman with his hand open for graft,
the addict, the derelict, the woman in the mink coat and
discontented mouth,
the high school girl with heavy books and frightened eyes.

Help me through these scandalous particulars
to understand
your love.

Help me to pray.

+ Madeleine L’Engle