I pray to speak as musicians pray; those whom I trust, more than writers, since they may speak without need to tell. With this desire, without end of longing for that sound to fill me, I am contrite, and offer my imperfect contrition to the hope I shall not end in Hell. O God, whose music made me, I beg you, do not leave me soundless where I am, believing nothing, and my mouth numb with lies. I am in pain. Say only—to this silent, shapeless form of life I have, you might give remedy. With that uncertain knife I could untie my tongue.