How Shall I Pray?

How shall I pray?
    Are tears prayers, Lord?
    Are screams prayers,
        or groans
            or sighs
                or curses?
Can trembling hands be lifted to you,
    or clenched fists
        or the cold sweat that trickles down my back
            or the cramps that knot my stomach?
Will you accept my prayers, Lord,
    my real prayers,
        rooted in the muck and mud and rock of my life,
and not just my pretty, cut-flower, gracefully arranged
    bouquet of words?
Will you accept me, Lord,
    as I really am,
        messed up mixture of glory and grime?
Lord, help me!
Help me to trust that you do accept me as I am,
that I may be done with self-condemnation
    and self-pity,
        and accept myself.
Help me to accept you as you are, Lord:
    mysterious,
        hidden,
            strange,
                unknowable;
and yet to trust
    that your madness is wiser
        than my timid, self-seeking sanities,
and that nothing you've ever done
    has really been possible,
so I may dare to be a little mad, too.