Come touch and open up my eyes,
oh Christ, who made the blinded see.
The deafened hear, and so must I,
the muted voices you set free.
Those voices that cry out for right,
for justice—lo! They cry to heav'n,
condemning all my pride of might.
I know that justice shall be giv'n.
For you have numbered all the stars
and know each soul bowed down in chains.
You see their wounds and feel their scars
and treasure each one as your claim.
Then take the heart my pride has maimed;
what I made stone, as flesh renew.
My spirit, by my hatred lamed,
raise up, that it may limp to you.
Take my complacent, withered hands
and stretch them out for healing's sake,
at last to do what right demands,
these chains I made to turn and break.
You, Lord, are justice for th'oppressed,
who bear your image, just as I.
My own injustice I confess:
Give me repentance ere I die.
Kate Bluett 