Yahweh, my joy,
To You I lift my voice.
To You who know the heart of man.
To You who formed the hands and eyes
and wrote the skill
with which men use the two.
I feel my heaviness, Oh Lord,
the tear-jerked sob of uselessness.
I cannot run, I cannot walk
I cannot sing, I cannot talk
as other people can.
I feel the deepening groan inside
that other people make
when they must talk to me.
I feel the lumbering, bumbling block;
my hoarse and nasal voice
awkward, zealous gestures
lack of clear command
And yet You made me, Lord.
And nothing that Your hand has formed is wrong.
Your mercy reaches to the heavens.
It comes down from the sky with the rain.
It waters the fields and trees,
even the weeds and thorns
in Your abundant goodness.
All that has life is in Your life maintained.
And in Your life, is glimpsed Your goodness, God.
Let me see, let me believe!
Oh may I grasp and hold
the hand my God extends to me.
Yahweh my joy
to You I lift my voice