The Prayer of a Little Boy Lost

Jacob17's picture

This is based around the poem "A Little Boy Lost" by William Blake. For those of you who haven't read it, i'll put the whole poem at the end. I wrote this after my Catholic Brit. Literature teacher made a fool of me in front of the whole class because I was "cynical and sarcastic and negative and because I can't just have faith and believe in something because God says it" or something stupid like that. So yeah.

This tear is finally falling down my angry, sweaty cheek as I lay here alone, in the warm safety of the night. I've been holding it back since lunch. Am I cynical, negative? They have no right to lift themselves above my questioning search, no right to make me cry this single, bruised tear. All I want is the truth. The night closes in closer around me and the candle beside my bed, as I bury my face deeper into the pillow case. Why have they made it a sin to wonder? My chest has burned with shame, this long hate-filled day; he said it in front of the whole class. "Faith" Ha! I had faith once; blind faith, lazy faith, plain-old just-the-way-you like it faith. I can't go back. "Nought can love another as itself, nor venerate another so, nor is it possible to thought a greater than itself to know"
And so this night I whisper a desperate prayer. A prayer, not to them or to their terrible God. To whom? Maybe I'll never know. A little boy lost. Why are you allowed to push away the facts that scream your name? Your "God" seems a cruel master, even slaves must be allowed their mind. "They strip'd him to his little shirt and bound him in an iron chain, and burn'd him in a holy place where many had been burned before."
i raise my head from the pillow, staring vacantly into the dancing flame, dancing alone in the darkness. Just like me.
"'Lo what a fiend is here' said He, 'One who sets Reason up for Judge of our most holy Mystery'" I lay my head back down and cry this prayer, a poem to the rhythm of my tears. "The weeping child could not be heard." A little boy lost, and all he can do is pray, alone.

OK, slightly sappy i know but oh well! Life is like that sometimes.

Here's the whole poem:
A Little Boy Lost

Nought loves another as itself
Nor venerates another so
Nor is it possible to Thought
A greater than itself to know

And Father, how can I love you
Or any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little bird
That picks up crumbs around the door

The Priest sat by and heard the child
In trembling zeal he seized his hair
He led him by his little coat
And all admired the Priestly care

And standing on the altar high
'Lo what a fiend is here!' said he
'One who sets reason up for judge
Or our most holy mystery'

The weeping child could not be heard
The weeping parents wept in vain
They strip'd him to his little shirt
And bound him in an iron chain

And burn'd him in a holy place
Where many had been burn'd before
The weeping parents wept in vain
Are such things done on Albion's shore?

By William Blake