Pry open these fingers, one by one,
these fixed fists,
these clenched hands that grip crumbling treasures like they were bread or gold.
Pry open these fingers of their pain, bone by bone,
so unused to surrender,
so tainted by self-sufficiency, as if I could even make one thing better by railing at it,
In the middle of the mess, free my hands of these dirty, dark cares
so I might raise palms high,
open, clean, and free to worship.