O you benignly vexing creature! In whom I have come to know The image of God as more Than correct doctrinal formula, Safe abstraction, Or comforting mirror In which to see myself darkly, It is you who have scattered my pride in its conceit And my rich expressions you have sent away empty. It is you who Reclining languidly in a chair, Working in the nursery or garden, Inviting to our hallowed bed, Schooled me in what I might never otherwise have suspected; That my shiny, golden apples, My stolen Promethean fire, My words, Which I peremptorily send scurrying to my bidding, Servants I thought well-mastered, Were inadequate to the thing, Not even articulate enough To praise you, O frustrating one, So familiar to my eyes and hands and mouth Let alone To praise the One So foreign to me… To us… Who created you. What use for me now that you have robbed me so? Yet speak I must For however impoverished and insufficient they are, The words demanded of me Are mine. So bless you… Both For lessons taught, (Though imperfectly learned); That true love, True praise, Is a gift without price Given by one to poor to buy To one too rich to need.