Praying in My Sleep

The nighttime collects all the day's incompletions. 

The fertile promise of quiet hours, kids in bed, 

Becomes seductive, the idea that things undone 

Might yet be done and not instead confessed.

But only confession brings rest because 

Only confession lives on trust 

In the One who holds all things

And in whom all things subside.

So I write my list of things undone, 

Of urgent resolutions postponed,

Of grace required,

And I say my prayers, 

And I thank my God,

And I go to bed, 

A prayer.