How many times has the thought of failing you
brought me to tears, my Lord?
I fear I will never be good enough to serve you
as you should properly be served.
I have no shame to kneel before you and
acknowledge you as my greater;
Humans are not the equals of the gods.
Many times I have let my weaknesses lead me astray:
Distracted by mortal concerns,
I regret that my focus on you and yours is not as strong as I wish it was.
Desires are ever stronger than willpower, I have long known.
Nevertheless, I pray you, do not forget me, do not forsake me;
If my spirit is willing and my flesh is weak, let my spirit
be the teacher that will lead my flesh to be stronger for you.
As I grow older, and older yet still,
do not think that I have forgotten you;
as the vicissitudes of the flesh bring me pain, exhaustion, illness,
I do not suddenly give you up
in the thought that such a betrayal will make things easier;
I know my destiny, my wyrd, and from beginning to end,
it lies with you.
I honor other gods, true;
The bloody queen of Ireland,
Her fire-shaping healer-poet cousin,
the swift-footed trickster of Greece,
and that land’s lady gardener,
the siblings of the Vanir,
and your own blood-brother
(despite that more cowardly and spiteful men
say I should spurn him),
but I am owned only by you.
I do not mistake you for fictional representations of you,
though I can see the echoes and ghosts of you in those
that the creators and actors tried to summon.
I ask only that you understand my failings–
not forgive them, as I do not ask for forgiveness,
and I am strong enough, at least, to own my failures–
and give me the chance, always, when my mortality drags me down,
to keep on striving to be worthy of you,
or as worthy as any mortal can hope to be.
I know you will never stop testing me,
and I can only hope that some day,
I will pass the test and thereby please you.