Robert Armstrong
Prayer of the Breton Fisherman
This boat of mine, oh Lord, is how so small;
This sail, oh master, scarce your winds can hold.
Weak are my arms to trim, to tack, to haul
Before grim waves that bludgeon, then to enfold.
These eyes of mine, oh Lord, cannot discern
Cliff, dune or harbour over high flung seas;
The angered skies deny my sure return
To cottage waiting by the sea-girt leas.
Your mercy, Lord, is kind and how so great,
To my inconsequence made manifest;
So for your servant may your winds abate;
Send home his boat to safe and certain rest.
As small my soul before the raging tide;
Your mercy, as your ocean, Lord, is wide.
Page(s) 158
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