The angle is bent as the eye is blind;
I’ve given up hope this will reach your ears:
Forgive me, I’m just not the saving kind.
I’ve come to reject each voice in my mind,
afraid to accept the word that appears.
The angle is bent as the eye is blind.
A dangerous thing, a hope so entwined
with silence, violence, and all I revere.
Forgive me, I’m just not the saving kind.
For every day that I am refined,
I yearn to break like a heart for the spear.
The angle is bent as the eye is blind.
For every day that I fall behind,
the need burns in me to show you my fear.
Forgive me, I’m just not the saving kind.
In all I don’t know, hold me fast, defined
by turning and facing a mercy severe.
My angle is bent as my eye is blind:
Forgive me, for I’m not the saving kind.
“Yet on the day of your fasting, you do as you please
Isaiah 58:3-5
and exploit all your workers.
Your fasting ends in quarreling and strife,
and in striking each other with wicked fists.
You cannot fast as you do today
and expect your voice to be heard on high.
Is this the kind of fast I have chosen,
only a day for people to humble themselves?
Is it only for bowing one’s head like a reed
and for lying in sackcloth and ashes?
Is that what you call a fast,
a day acceptable to the Lord?
