Oh, how many times I have pointed the preverbal finger at the masses, yet being guilty of so much.
Oh, how blinding it can be up a top the high horse, as if the air atop is thinner, causing the senses to be blocked.
Crucifying others for their areas of lack, yet delicately sweeping mine under the elaborate preverbal rug.
Conjuring excuses for my fault lines while spewing judgements for theirs.
Oh, if only I could apply eyes of grace to those around me, like I so effortlessly bestow in my moments of shortcoming.
Oh, if only I could behave as a merciful martyr rather than a pious judge.
My lack of understanding betrays me. It compels me to cast judgement on all differing from my assumptions.
For it is what I do not understand, I so hastily decree verdict.
It is my lack of understanding that breeds behest.
Oh, give me eyes to see differently.
To see what is and not what is not.
To see as an artist viewing his masterpiece. Every line, smudge, stroke.
To see and not judge.
Rip apart my preconceived notions and replace with overwhelming compassion.
Oh, let me see.