The Internal Is Infernal

by CK

I washed my hands before I ate;

took 6 baths the last two weeks;

kept clear of lepers in the street;

and cleansed the outside of the plate.

I was right in all my rites

and circumspect in all the prayers.

I pay supererogative tithes

and scrub the bowls with care. 

-- but somewhere, something’s wrong

with the inside of the bowl.

Something festers in my soul,

and brings down shame upon my songs:

my mouth can lift no praise,

and my tongue is dumb and lame.

I cannot raise my hands,

and I fear to speak that Name.

I can’t perceive what defiles me

since my heart I have exempted.

There, green envies still beguile me,

and murders linger, unattempted.                               

Alas, I will peer inside the bowl.

Do I dare stare in there?

There, darkness grows, unattended.

There, pride hides, unsurrendered.

The internal is infernal

for I have kept the law external;

I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

but I have not cried,

and I have not obeyed.

I have seldom took thought

of justice or mercy,

and I have passed many beggars 

who were cold and thirsty.

And worst of all, I have thought

that I was better than the worst;

I have looked on the toll-collector

and denounced his crimes 

-- then greedily snatched the widow’s last dime

The internal is infernal:

my heart is hard, and it is cold.

It is stingy, and rapacious,

and as icy as a glacier.   

I do not know if I can assemble

a heart so conflicted with dissent.

But I will journey to the Temple

for I hear a Psalm of Ascent.

It is a song of life, I think, and so even I will stand.

My voice is hoarse,

and my heart is coarse;

but I will sing my part, 

and I will rend this heart,

and I will try to lift my hands.