Fulcrum

The prayer of a righteous man avails much.

Then what, Lord, of mine?

I need a steady vigil to even know right from wrong.

What of my prayer?

Is it forgotten? Pushed aside?

Where's my prayer, Father?

Has it risen to your ears,

Or did it die upon release,

Crumble in my hands?

You see, that prayer was my weakest;

My flesh can't afford much more,

And I want to make sure it got there

Without being put out on the way.

If my faith is what carries it,

Then it's sure to have fallen already.

If love was the messenger,

He, too, would trip along the way.

See, it's for these things the prayer was for,

And if it depends on them, 

Then I'm shooting broken arrows

While aiming for the Sun.