When Shakespeare met the Psalm

I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

But I, am I unfinished, sent before my time?

I wonder why, am I, so different

And when you spy this simple shape

Malformed despite my parents’ intent

What do you make of me?

What of me do I make?


You see I am; alive in a body

that sometimes malfunctions

while I sit in a place of honour in functions

I want to run, quickly and take respite

behind a door that closes and makes me sure I am safe,

my forties have become my winter of discontent.


I relent.

I smile.

I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

But why did God down his tools

just before he finished his work.

When he formed my inward parts,

did he just start, get nearly there,

then stare and think well

fair enough that will do.


I am.  Am I,

fearfully and wonderfully made glorious?

this son of yours.