The Lord's Prayer. I memorized it as a child, Reciting it by rote Sunday after Sunday, Before I even knew What "hallowed" meant. It seems so simplistic, Doesn't it? So unsophisticated, To rely on pre-formatted sentences, Even if supplied by the Savior. We age, and we add words. Our list of requests grows longer. Yet, When I can no longer ascertain If my heart's desire is pure Or tainted by selfish motives, When what is "best" for me May bring harm to another, Even unseen, When divergent choices Both appear optimal, Or when I don't know The lesser of two evils, When I see injustice I cannot resolve, When another's distress Disheartens my spirit, How, then, shall I pray? For what shall I ask? Shall I string phrases together, Or quote Scripture, To sound like I know something? Shallow responses Are hollow promises, A "there, there, Everything will be alright," Like patting a child's head, A refusal to recognize Real Suffering That stuns into silence. My understanding is insufficient; I have no answers; I've arrived at the end of my Self. One thing only remains to be said: "Our Father, who art in Heaven..."