My heart burns with a righteous anger
For Your Face is hidden
Not by Your hands,
But by my own

It seems that these things
Which have kept me in Your grace
Have also succeeded
In keeping me from Your throne

These tears that fall
Have stained Your nail-scared feet
And Your tears that rain down
Are what heal my wounded soul

If only those close to me
Who call themselves kings
Would be silent, would be more
Than these lips that are cold.