Time nears for the closing of the Gates.
So you call upon the name of God,
One Who loves deeply from within.



I've traveled far, my staff in hand.
I'm weary and my provisions are at an end.
The path seems narrow, at times disappears all together.
I've walked through thickets and through brush,
at times I've lost my way.

Show me your gates, that I may seek refuge.
Receive me at this day's end.

I'm not perfect.
I'm a human soul decorated with history,
an earthen pot imprinted by life.

Each mark a sign of imperfection, damage, and thus
the pot is cast off,
or etched by use, rich with story,
the imperfection, ennobling, and thus,
the pot is treasured.

My offering is myself, a dented pot, 
filled with possibilities.
Open Your gates, and
embrace me.

HaRachaman, I've journeyed long, my body worn,
my resources at a low ebb.

The path winds.
The gates lie closed.

I've walked through valleys and through wilderness.

Help me find an open doorway,
that I might find shelter.
Enfold me as I wander in.





I'm imperfect.
I'm mortal, product of rich loam and starry heaven,
living in exile,
a cloth aged by use.

Fabric frayed, shabby, and thus
tossed aside, or
as in need of repair, woven with threads of beauty,
able to be mended, and thus,

My offering is myself, a timeworn cloth, faded, fragile,
woven with potential.
Open Your gates, and
receive me.


the light is fading.

I ache from wandering.
From having lost my way,
strayed from my path.

Help me see an entrance. 
And if one gate is closed,
help me find my way to one that is open.

For night comes, and
I want to return.



Open wide the gates, HaRachaman.
Open wide the gates.


Photography Credits

First and last photograph: Frank Dobrushken
Second photograph: Kathy Berendt