Psalm 11—The day has fallen dark around me, and the darkness is full of arrows.
Lord, what refuge do I have but you? When my days each become small jokes Like the kind a razor makes, When the whole house sleeps Except for my night fears, When the old, long longings Tremble in my trembling hands, Bring me home. Call me back like a bird To your mountain. The day has fallen dark around me, And the darkness is full of arrows. From my youth to this day, I have suffered terrors. So, Lord, what can I do When the ground under me trembles Every time I try to stand, And with one hand I could reach out And touch the grave? Yet, I know that nothing is lost on you; No trust slips from your hands. Your temple is the whole earth. The heavens are your throne. Even this swaying, darkling land Is your holy ground. I remove my shoes and wait. You walk the righteous and the wicked Alike through their trials. You bring each a cup Brimming with their own works; Fire for fire and wind for wind. But those who wait for you Will feel your love, Will pass through dark to day, Will see your face.
Psalm 17—I wake through harrowing nights, but you have heard me.
I have asked before And I will ask again: hear me. This prayer is all I can manage, But it rises from an honest heart. Winnow me and claim what remains. I am a fulgurite among a million sands. Sift me and start again with what is left. Seek me and sound me out. Stand at my side as I groan Through my night thoughts one by one. I have kept my hands from violence. I have watched for signs— A bent branch, a footstep, A thin whisper leading left or right, The next river rock between flashes of light— To trace your path where it bends away. I have raised my voice to call on you And I call again: listen to my prayer. Show me you are better Than my frail hopes guessed. Show me you know how to shelter Those who have wagered with you, For dice rattle, time rattles, And doubts rattle here in my head. If I ever needed refuge, it is now. I am not well-versed in violence, But my enemies are all at hand. They have shut their dull hearts And sharpened their mouths. They do not know your name, But they do know mine. Before me, faces leer and lunge, Pallid as bones, snapping, angry. Behind me, claws skitter, blood bright. Between them, I gasp through ever longer nights. Violence is not what you made the world for; It is just what happens here. Is my God greater Than the threats around me? Rise and confront them. Show them Your love is silver over steel. Teach them the name of the power That guards the weak. No strength stands unbended before you. Bow them. Upend them. They have taken the fattest portion. Their bellies bulge. Their cupped hands hoard spoils They have promised to themselves. As for me, I wake through harrowing nights, But you have heard me. You have never been closer than this. My consolation waits In the lines of your face.
Psalm 24—Who hoped her way through long years, black and bird boned as the limbs of winter.
The earth and all its fullness is the Lord’s— The landed pillars of the deep, The thrumming, captured seas, The rivers rising from the holy ground— All are his. Who can find a home on your mountain? Who can stand inside your holy place With head high and a whole heart? The one who held the coal and felt the firekiss; Who greets God in every lesser love; Who hoped her way through long years, Black and bird boned as the limbs of winter. Whose laugh broke in rich beams, Loud and wild as it would. Lift up every last lost gate. Open every angel-hemmed door. The king of glory is coming in, The Saturday world in step behind him.
Psalm 28—You are there when the grace gathers around the table at dinner, in the hallowed halls of the real world.
I forgot how to begin, Lord. Wait for me. It’ll take a minute To find my way from here To somewhere else. I’ve been digging ditches all summer, Sweating through my graveclothes. I can feel the beat, beat, Beat of things going faster—my pulse, My pitted prayers, the waltzing clock. I’ve been patting my pockets since June And I keep coming up short. I thought I was only busy, But I watched these holes getting deeper, And realized: one is as good as another. All day a question runs in my head: Will you meet me more than halfway, Or will you drag me off with the wicked? I can find their every shortfall in myself. I have taken my sin in sips, While I waited for time to eat away at my resolve. I have settled for less And insisted it was worth it. I have pressed my hands to the wall In the space between two trains And hoped my fleeting pleas would pass for prayer. You hold yourself silent, But I know you are there. You show yourself and dance away, You made your rumor run Under the wind, wild as wolves, Catching, coy, quicksilver— Purple in fingers picking blackberries, Gasping in the azaleas, Cascading in summer hollyhocks Grown head high and higher. You are there In the throaty chuckle of ravens brooding Like a gang of black toads in the oak trees. You are there when the grace gathers Around the table at dinner, In the hallowed halls of the real world Ready to be passed again from hand to hand In bits of bread and cups of wine. Lord, help me. Hear me. Gird yourself and guard me. Show up, my God, you plodder! I cannot give much more than this. If you are not my help, I have none. Shepherd, Carry me.
Psalm 30—No night tears can stop the birds and bells of dawn singing every morning.
I ran scared for a long time, Wanting to be safer than I was. I made narrow escapes but couldn’t Quite shake what hounded me. I cried for help, for healing, For answers, for anything. You heard me. You gave me My life back. You hid me In a quiet place only because I asked— But it was years before I could see it. People of God, if the Lord has been your help, Raise up whatever song you have. He is a whirlwind and a harrow But you can’t shake him. His love lasts the night and all life long. He knows how to wait; Take as long as you need. No night tears can stop the birds And bells of dawn singing every morning. Like fireseed, sorrow tills the soil Where supple flowers grow. When I prospered, I promised myself That I would always prosper, That I would never slip. I grew bright on limelight. My life was mirrors, and everything Mimicked my gestures but never touched. I scooped laughter into my lap And every hope came by the handful. But it was all hung on the braided Thread of your favor. My promises Came to nothing when you hid your face. The faith I thought was anvils Was only an easy season That let half truths gather, And stagger around in masquerade. You lifted the mask away, And I was dismayed. Lord, have mercy. We both know I was battered, barely Able to drag grief-riddled prayers Across your threshold, And I am not out of my straits yet. What good is my life If it becomes no different than death? Was I not scared enough already? Do the dead praise you? Do they tell stories to one another Of your faithfulness as they lie Side by side in the dust? Show me your smile and this cathedral Chest will breathe again, will sing. Make me rise and walk, And these stumbling feet will tap out a tattoo, Even sketch the steps of a silly dance. End the sackcloth season and give Me gladness back in double draughts. When the dirge days end, When I am safe again, I will not be silent. My life will be my thanks forever.
"Violence is not what you made the world for;
It is just what happens here." This line is devastating in its plain language assessment.