Song of the Dust
There are the days when I realize --
oh my God, I'm dust, and to dust I will return --
and still, I'm rebellious dust,
as if my very existence didn't depend on You
as if Your breath didn't bring me to life
as if all good things didn't come from Your hand.
My heart is inclined, foolishly,
to fight You, to flee You
to run straight down the paths that lead to Death.
But here's the wonder of it --
You didn't shake me off Your hands,
snuff out my existence
look at me and shake Your head.
You came to this created planet
and took on dust-flesh Yourself,
living just as we do
fighting trials and temptations.
And then, having lived,
You died in my place.
Blood spilled, publicly shamed
King of the universe, murdered by traitors
who called You a liar, a thief, a fraud.
You're the only Holy, most glorious;
we should have fallen to worship You,
but instead we stood and mocked.
You -- God Yourself, the sinless Son --
took on the unspeakable agony of the wrath of God.
The only perfect relationship that has ever existed
Perichoresis broken, divine joy shattered.
Eloi, eloi, lama sabachthani? You cried,
It catches my breath, softens my heart.
While I was Your enemy, You did this for me.
Sunday morning came the empty tomb, the resurrection --
physical, historical proof that Your dying words were true.
It is finished.
Because Your sacrifice was perfect, we too may live
no longer fearing death
never to be abandoned
transformed from dust into glory.