The weak servant adjusts his blindfold, then clasps his shaky hands back in prayer. His forearms show gold-sparkling radiation burns from thine Holy touches. Each incense-laden breath of his brings faintness to his head, Your gold presence thick in the air. 
Your eyes easily see past the blindfold, see the bags of his eyes underneath. Your eyes pierce his flesh and see the tumors beneath. Long exposure to You takes a toll. Yet, he doesn't leave, nor struggle.

He worships. Amusing, is it not?