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.