Doth not wisdom cry? It does, it reaches out, it grasps for my hand. It begs me to hear, exhorts me to understand, and I, I in my weak desperation, have ears that cannot hear and a mouth which issues the babble of confusion. Only when my heart cries out to help another in his confusion do I realize the extent of my helplessness. Oh, Lord, I seek, I pray, I beg for the right words. The words that will soothe, will calm, will instruct, will share my love with my hearers. Stammers of my mind and lapses of my knowledge trip my eager feet. I stumble and lie prostrate, my hand inches away from he who lies in front of me. Stretching, pleading, hoping, I still cannot reach him from my position on the ground. I turn away and cry quiet tears where he cannot see me. The glimmers of truth inside my heart lead me to look above, to the sky and the Fount of wisdom. In His infinite mercy and grace, I feel a hand behind me, lifting me along and laying me next to he whom I wished to reach. His eyes are closed, he cannot see me. I wrap my arms around him and lay my head next to him on the ground. If he could hear my words, they would not help. I relinquish my desire, and I’m satisfied to lie beside him on the ground. I do not know if he can feel me, but I will stay here and hope that somehow, somewhere, it makes a difference.