Lord of the lowly,
teach me to find You
where the world has learned not to look.

In the face beneath the bridge,
in the hands that tremble for bread,
in the stranger carrying a life
no one bothers to know,
let me glimpse the mystery
of Your hidden presence.

You have chosen the poor
not because they are less,
but because love draws near
to the wounded,
and mercy kneels
where dignity has been forgotten.

Do not let me love You
only where it is beautiful.

Take me into the places
where suffering has no voice,
where hunger waits quietly,
where loneliness becomes a home.

Open my eyes
until I can no longer separate
the poor from my prayer,
or Your wounded body
from the bodies of the forgotten.

And when I reach for another hand,
let it be Your hand reaching through mine.
When I offer bread,
let me remember the Bread
that first offered Himself to me.

Teach me the sacred blindness
that sees no stranger,
the holy poverty
that knows all we possess is gift,
and the fierce tenderness
that will not look away.

For somewhere beneath
the dust and sorrow of this world,
Your kingdom is already breathing.

And perhaps, Lord,
You are waiting there,

in the one I was taught
not to see.