I part my lips to speak to find my mouth a desert place.
My parched palette, rough upon my tongue;
numb - struck dumb
by a depth and breadth beyond words.

But You, O Lord
You know my every thought.
You hear the hurt beat out at my heart.
You feel all I feel, but deeper still.

My God, who holds a jar of my tears;
a myriad of moments,
yet You can match dop for drop,
whilst keeping the whole world turning in the palm of your hand.

On my knees I come;
willing myself to be still.
I need only be still.
Still You hear my soul speak.