From all my lame defeats and oh much more

From all the victories that I seemed to score;

From cleverness shot forth on thy behalf

At which, while angels weep, the audience laugh;

From all my proofs of thy divinity,

Thou, who wouldst give no sign, deliver me.

Thoughts are but cons. Let me not trust, instead

Of thee, their thin-word image of thy head.

From all my thoughts, even my thoughts of thee,

O thou fair silence, fall, and set me free.

Lord of the narrow gate and the needle’s eye,

Take from me all my trumpetry lest I die.

C.S. Lewis (1898-1963),  Apologist’s Evening Prayer, 1942.