My daughter Rachel (the Out of Eden one) wrote this poem for her professor to make into a choral piece. It turned out quite well and since I'm out of time this week to blog - I thought I'd pass it along.
By the way, this is her website if you want a copy of any of the songs Rachel's MySpace
Dust Psalm
i am made shielded from the scalding sun void of fiery atmosphere song heralding that i am come i am made near to ground kin to dust and grass-top glaze like i spend my time-size days the earth knows how to bow within the folding starry arms but I
oh Lord, i cannot blow away the dust that sinks atop my soul
i cannot scatter cloudy prayer from words that crystallize in air
one Hand in stars
one Hand in dust
one Heart keeps soul hinges from retiring into rust
i am made
If there is a God, then there is thought behind my existence. If there is thought behind my existence--well, then, love is the only plausible motivation, for of what use could I possibly be to a God powerful enough to create me in the first place?
So here I am. Suppose I am made. Suppose the Genesis account of creation gives me some insight into what my existence means, whether or not events took place in that exact order or in that exact way in space-time history. First comes the grandeur of light, of day! God’s glory has a physical manifestation now, surely. The galaxy of stars, the planets revolving around our own star. The oceans, the redwoods, the Serengeti, the Great Barrier Reef: smaller by comparison, but imposing in their own right. Surely these are a perfect reflection of God.
But something is not yet complete. Entering dimension, shrinking small enough to feel grains of dirt separate from each other, God fashions a man. Breathes life into his form. Says—shockingly—“This is my reflection.”
I now have the gift of breath and with it the opportunity to respond in some way. Stuck in dimension myself, inhibited by chronology, I fill most of my days with things that matter little and hardly know enough to look up at a God whose image I bear and say…well, thanks. In fact, when it happens that I am suddenly aware of him, I trip over my words and find that I don’t even know how to respond to him. The planets have a grand order to their lifespan; the seasons turn perfectly on cue. Nature understands her role.
I do not. And the dirt of my humble origin seems to muddy the grand prayers I try to pray.
Fear not, Someone says. The same love that passed by the show of stars in the beginning to breathe life into you is not too lofty to stoop down again and be in your dusty midst. I think the Creator has not yet finished his work.
-Rachel Harlow
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