Some prayers have never found their way beyond my aching chest;
they rise beneath the words I say, then settle with the rest.
I’ve tried to bring them to You, God, but don’t know where to start.
How do I name what hurts when I can’t sort through my own heart?

You’ve seen me sitting in the car long after I’ve arrived,
still gathering the strength to face the day that waits outside.
You’ve heard the water running while I leaned against the sink,
too tired to find a single word, too overwhelmed to think.

I tell the people that I love, “I’m tired, but I’m okay,”
then wonder why I couldn’t let the truth come out that day.
Perhaps I fear that once I start, the tears will never end,
or what I need will be too much to ask of any friend.

And there are things I’m slow to bring because they carry shame:
the envy, the resentment, all the doubts I cannot tame.
I want to come with gratitude, with something good to say,
but sometimes all I have is, “God, I barely made today.”

I wonder if You hear me when I cannot make a sound,
when I search for some assurance and there’s little to be found.
When I sit through songs of worship with no strength to sing along,
do You hear the prayer my silence has been holding all along?

I think You do. You know my hurt before I can explain;
You do not need a polished sentence to recognize my pain.
You understand the tangled things I’m learning how to name
and meet me in the middle of them, loving me the same.

So let me come without rehearsing what I think You need to hear;
let me sit beside You, speechless, and believe You want me near.
I may need time to tell the truth, to let these things unfold.
Please help me trust that even this is safe for You to hold.

And when the words return, I’ll bring whatever I can say;
until then, let my tired breathing be the way I learn to pray.
For every night I lay awake, too full of hurt to speak,
You heard the prayers I never spoke and stayed beside the weak.