Lord, apart from Thee no wisdom dwells in us—
only the brittle reed of mortal guess,
the cracked cisterns of a self that thirsts
yet drinks its shadow dry.

Thou art our Wisdom, holy, honed as blade
that parts the bone from marrow, night from claim;
a vein of light through granite dark, a seam
where grace seeps slow as resin from the wound.

In every fork where choice ignites like tinder,
we turn—half-blinded still—from the quick flare
of worldly coals that warm the hand but char the soul.
No borrowed spark avails; we seek the Source.

Lord, apart from Thee no wisdom holds—
Thou, faithful forge and flame, unyielding true.
Breathe now Thy quickening ash into these lungs,
and rule us, King, until the seeking ends in You.