The Blind Weaver

The Blind Weaver

What have I, my maker, my Lord?

My treasures are ransacked,

My wealth has been burned.

Never was it mine,

It always was yours,

My fists clenched tight to the locks on the door.

You battered my hands ‘till the blood met the sand,

I cried out in rage

As my bones snapped in two;

I turned my face to the heavens and cursed the only truth.

And lightning struck my eyes that day,

Never did I see the gold and silver rushed away.

But the shelves are all empty,

And the storehouse is burned.

Nothing is left,

It burns and it burns.

What can I give, my maker, my Lord?

Nothing have I, it all was yours.

Blinded by beatings I brought on myself

My maker, my savior,

I have nothing else.

So into your hands as but a lump of clay

I step with fear of the fire that burns the soul

But kills every evil and makes the saints whole.