"Here's what I want to say:
Don't, God, bring in a verdict of guilty
without letting me know the charges you're bringing.
How does this fit into what you once called 'good'—
giving me a hard time, spurning me,
a life you shaped by your very own hands,
and then blessing the plots of the wicked?
You don't look at things the way we mortals do.
You're not taken in by appearances, are you?
Unlike us, you're not working against a deadline.
You have all eternity to work things out.
So what's this all about, anyway—this compulsion
to dig up some dirt, to find some skeleton in my closet?
You know good and well I'm not guilty.
You also know no one can help me.
8-12"You made me like a handcrafted piece of pottery—
and now are you going to smash me to pieces?
Don't you remember how beautifully you worked my clay?
Will you reduce me now to a mud pie?
Oh, that marvel of conception as you stirred together
semen and ovum—
What a miracle of skin and bone,
muscle and brain!
You gave me life itself, and incredible love.
You watched and guarded every breath I took.