Is it not time for me to cry?

Tell me dear,
When You hath thought of bathing me
By sandal paste,
Draping me, all gone, this morn,  a waste...

When you tied me by your cries
your sobs, your silent screams,
your morn a golden cream,
Your Holy knot
Like a string,
Your light borne feather dropping
On my boatglide through waters of rivers,
Tell me dear,
Whence in Your mansion white
You thought of holding me dumb a write,
As your Best Bless, Your Eloquence,
And when you drench me by Your wide spread kindness,

Is it not time
For me, to cry?
To cry an ocean?
To cry a red wine, a potion?

Tell me,
Dear,
Is it not times?
To chant You loud and clear?
To get awakened by You, again, chanticleer?