Psalm 8—I am thistledown the wind has taken, yet the lives of stars are nothing to me.

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Lord, even the air echoes your name.
The river thrums with it.
The bright mountains tower it out.
The holy birds sing it dawnward.
Yet, the earth and the whole heavens
Can’t contain the barest sum of you.

When I look at the works of your hands,
I see how everything is poised
At the start of its becoming.
Fat mat tongues push greenly 
From the snow soil like a rising from the dead.
Overhead, wild and unseen singers in the trees
Chorus and break cover, 
As if every leaf became a bird at once.
The wind blows from another world
And the clouds go cartwheeling by.

What am I that you are mindful of me?
You have made me haunted and hallowed,
Branded, bent, and fallow;
Lattice of heartstring and sinew,
A long and weary marionette;
Hawk above, snake below,
Mouse afield and running.

Still, you gave me the wild world,
And crowned me with your own crown.
I am thistledown the wind has taken,
Yet the lives of stars are nothing to me.

O God, how bright and vast is your name in all the earth.

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