I call it "honest"
Strike all my enemies on the jaw! Break the teeth of the wicked!
Why do I think it's acceptable?
I think a lot of things,
say some of them, too.
That doesn't make me right.
It seems harmless
a release, maybe,
Pour out Your wrath on them!
I realize what it is exactly that I'm praying against.
Or who, rather.
The arrogant cannot stand in Your presence.
(How often my pride rules my actions.)
You hate all who do wrong.
(I pass injustice every day on the streets
and sometimes I perpetuate it.
You destroy those who tell lies.
(It's too hard to keep telling the truth.)
Bloodthirsty and deceitful men the LORD abhors.
(Yet here I am, screaming for the heads
of those who have wounded me,
making it all their fault
when maybe I was in the wrong, as well.)
It seems so hypocritical.
It feels so wrong.
Declare them guilty, O God!
Am I honestly praying for my own guilt to be revealed
Let their intrigues be their downfall!
What if mercy never caught me when I stumbled over my own plans?
Banish them for their many sins, for they have rebelled against You!
How many times have I deliberately
turned my back
shut my eyes
closed my hands
covered my ears
run the other way?
Too many times to count.
Can I demand that they be banished,
and then dare to beg that I be spared?
Oh, God, God, God, God.
It's a dangerous business, I think, asking for justice to be served.
Maybe I don't know what justice is at all.
Maybe my idea of "justice" is whatever seems to best serve my interests.
When I pray
Pour out on
I'm forced to look in the mirror,
see the ugly truth I want to flee,
know my own faults,
and admit my deep unworthiness.
I see in them my own
I, by Your great mercy,
I will come into Your house.
Unworthy as I am, I throw myself on the only thing that I know will catch me.
Imprecation has no place when I realize
I am them
and they are me.
by Your great mercy . . .