How shall I plumb your memory, O God,
I that am fleeting as the dew of morning?
How shall I acclaim your compassion?
For you remember your people.
When they wander pleading in the wilderness,
When they are cast low beneath the earth,
You do not forget them.
By your hand the nations are shaken,
Their foundation is as the dust of your hair.
God’s people dance in the earthquake,
Their voice rises up with the hurricane.
For you have cast their chains into cymbals.
The dungeons are remade as a garden,
A bower of refuge for the weak.
And all who pass by shall say,
‘Who are these, that we do not know?
Who can tell us their names?’
We will tell you.
We will speak without fear, though we tremble,
For we are those whom God has remembered,
Who have touched the glory of unending love.
There is no limit to the memory of God.
It traces your each atom from end to end of Time,
Every one the more beloved,
Because what they make is you.
Originally written for Open Table Liverpool
Photo: Kookabura in free flight, Ceres Environment Park, Australia – by Lynne Roberts
