On The Equator.(Poem)

 
How rarely Your mercy visits me, 
My King, my Father; 
And so, most of my days, I am Your wandering son 
Who has cast his lot like a prophet 
In the desert of his days. 
 
And Your deliverance that comes to me then, 
My Father, my King, 
Is like a well that the wanderer came on at last, 
When he had almost prayed for death from thirst 
And the heat that shrivels the body. 
 
And at times it is so sweet, 
It is like a miraculous dream ...