In the quiet mihrab, silver crowned with
age,
Zakariya
stood, though his frame was frail.
'My
bones have weakened, my hair is ablaze,'
Yet
his hope in his Lord did not pale.
Childless
years weighed heavy on his chest,
He
feared for his people when he was laid to rest.
Who would guard the way if heirs went astray?
So he turned to his Lord, and began to pray.
O my Lord,
by Your grace,
be my strength
and illumine my sight
and what is in my heart
and be the purpose of
my life and my death.
Fill me with Your love
and grant me such love
that it is surpassed
by none after me.
O my Lord,
accept my prayers,
grant me my wishes,
cleanse me, protect me,
draw me close to Yourself;
guide me,
help me and enable me to do good,
purify me,
illumine my soul,
make me entirely Yours
and become entirely mine.