Often in life

I find that the spectacles

I use

To view the world

And life

And everything

Have become smudged.

I try to clean them myself

But they only become dirtier.

I take them to others

But to no avail—

Because we try to clean

These dirty glasses

With our own filthy hands.

But when I turn to you

You gently offer me

The cloth I've been given

And help met to clean them

Not with your hands,

Nor with mine;

But with the clean,

Pure cloth

That was made for cleansing.