A Psalm of a Child of Japheth

I wish I could write without using the word “I,”
But it towers in front of me like the dumpster
That blocks my view of the lake and trees.
So I will make my feeble attempt to climb the sycamore
And look over it,
And sing to You my psalm.

Unto You, oh Lord, will I sing.
Please help me see the unworthiness of me.
I am the wrapper, discarded.
I am the mongrel brought from the pound,
Cleaned and brushed,
Allowed to sleep on the foot of the bed.
I am the son’s murderer embraced by the father
While the weapon is still in my hand.
You are the son, looking up with a tear.

It is difficult at times to talk to One who defines love.
It is painful to stand with hands soiled by my sacrifice of fruits
And the blood of my brother,
And see the pain I have caused.

Unto You, oh Lord, will I sing.
For now.