O God, reach down to touch the strands
Of my cold heart, and break the bands
That suffocate my spirit still --
That place me on a judge’s hill.
Assessing those with less than me
As objects of mine enmity.
Withholding all my widow’s mite --
As if my usury be right.
Make advice I want to give
The poor to die and never live
To haunt me with its brittle taste.
Be prodigal, my heart -- make haste!
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