With how many masks have I approached you? In how many ways have I lied in my search for the truth? I can be a preacher man, striking the Bible to keep time. I can sin more than all the East Coast, falling at your feet and begging your love. But how can you love me if I have no face? Can you love me through the mask?
Only in the garden could we love, for we did not know we were naked. How many fig leaves must you blow away before the final mask is worn? O Bloody sacrifice, my God, please clothe me in your skin. See your face in your work.
I have prayed, “Make me,” my God, in perfect humiliation; only now do I see the humor: “Make me,” is what the stiff necked says when he means, “Force me.” O God, I long to not need force but to be the thing you make. How I hate my own trepidation. I watch my hand grab for a new mask again.
Lord, I cannot be pleasing unto you unless you make me pleasing. Forgive me that I cannot be pleasing until forced. I am weary of good. I am weary of trying to be good. I am weary of wanting to try to be good. O Lord, is there salvation for a fool standing on his head?
Cut away my masks, Lover, and find my face. I try to submit, but can only submit, by your grace.
Tale Told 