Do I pray

for a buoyancy,
a balmy drift,
afloat His Will,

or

to be bounced
along the rocky bottom,
torn and tossed,
turvy-topsey,
gasping last breaths before
drowning in His rushing force,
grasping at sparkling
hints
that I might end up
were I prayed to be
seconds before I surrendered
to the current
and was swept from
shores solid safety
by the surge of His
benevolent beating?

Neither!

For when I pray,
“Thy will be done…”
I offer myself for

either

one.