The Apologist's Evening Prayer:
From all my lame defeats and oh! much more
From all the victories that I seemed to score;
From cleverness shot forth on thy behalf
At which, while angels weep, the audiance laugh;
Thou, who wouldst give no sign, deliver me.
Thoughts are but coins, let me not trust, instead of Thee
their thin worn image of thy head.
From all my thoughts, even from my thoughts of Thee,
Oh Thou fair silence, fall, and setme free.
Lord of the narrow gate, and needle's eye
Take from me all my trumpery, lest I die.