If I am not, in You, my Lord, then who am I? And what does it mean for me to be?
What is the worth of this being, shattered among the mirrors, if it is not a reflection of Your holy face?
If my breaths do not cry out Your name, and my steps do not take me to Your temple,
and my hands do not stretch out in mercy as Your right hand stretches out — then what "I" is this, clinging to existence as a stranger in a house that is not his?
Am I but the shadow of a void?
Am I an echo of a voice not yet created?
I am, without You, my Master, the rubble of a longing with no foundation, and the dust of dreams into which no spirit was breathed.
So why should I be, if I am not Yours? What is the purpose of the heartbeat, if every beat in me does not bow down to You?
What is the purpose of tears, if they are not poured out at Your feet? What is the purpose of love, if it is not tested in Your Cross, and does not blossom from Your wound, and is not watered from Your cup?
O You who have dwelt in me from the beginning, make me like a branch that bears fruit in Your vineyard, and like a son who returns to You every morning, because he knows his identity only in You.
If I am not, in You, O Lord, then I am not myself, and I shall not be.