In those days…
As the earth shook and darkness loomed
The prophets wailed, O Lord.
Crying in longing for salvation.
But, in these days…
The prophets keep silent.
“Return to you, O Lord?
Where? Where shall we find you…?”
Hearts whisper and wonder.
Life has scorched us; burned us through and through.
Sorrow and shame; regret and disillusion
Mar that which you formed – once beautiful and new
Now ashen and small.
Have you turned your face?
The wind scattering you to the corners of the earth…
The tiniest of breaths carries you far away from our grasp.
“Where is our God?” we cry.
Because you, O Lord…
Seem nothing more than insubstantial dust.
Slipping carelessly through our fingers
Falling to the earth, only to be trampled beneath the weight our feet.
Our God is nothingness.
And our hearts are broken – unprotected and naked.
Nothing stronger than ash: this – a God – does not make.
Torn open hearts spill to the ground.
Delving deep into the dirt…
And there we lie.
On the ground…
That which has made it through the burning
Lies – covered in dust.
To dust we do return.
And then we know, of course…
That God must fashion of dust, must breathe upon dust …
Must be dust himself
For dust comes as beginning – not as end.
As it always has.
It is in ash; in dust; in dirt
In all that has been left barren
That You meet us.
In aches you show your face;
Within our sorrows you offer us grace;
For upon the ashes God speaks…