Through war-torn streets
where hope is dead,
Fly bombs and anger ‘round
our heads.
We raise the cry, “God hear
our plea
And guide our feet in paths
of peace.”
Through homes where love
cannot to be found,
And violence spreads the fear
around,
We raise the cry, “God hear
our plea
And guide our feet in paths
of peace.”
Through lands where food just
will not grow,
And streams of water never
flow,
We raise the cry, “God hear
our plea
And guide our feet in paths
of peace.”
Through minds where illness
takes first place,
And wholeness longs for any
space,
We raise the cry, “God hear
our plea
And guide our feet in paths
of peace.”
Through challenges of this
our time,
Through rage, neglect,
greed’s paradigm,
We raise the cry, “God hear our
plea
And guide our feet in paths
of peace.”
When things seem worst, we
hear the song
Hope sings above the din of
wrong:
The song of One who hears our
plea.
Christ guides our feet in
paths of peace.---Leigh Anne Armstrong, 2005
tune: FERNDALE
By God's tender mercies,
dawn will break on high,
bringing light to us who sit in dark,
in the very shadow of death,
to brighten the way to the path of peace.
---Luke 1:78-79 (para. laca)
During my prayers and meditations this morning it passed through my mind that, though our individual and tribal agonies and tragedies seem freshly goring with each new wound, we have been hurting for a long time now. We have been needing peace, in our climate, in our world, in our homes, in our hearts and psyches, for so long. Most of the time we move through our days, numb to the violence around us, blind to the damage inflicted on our brothers and sisters by systems and power and pure plain meanness and evil. The world is engineered for numbness, for dulling the senses to the pain of others, even our own pain.
And then sectarian and tribal violence turns into mass slaying of school children and college students. Or the pain of mental illness spills over into unspeakable tragedy on a massive scale. Or families have to take stock and rebuild love where it grows for their children.
And through all of this, faint, is the song of hope. Not the kind of solid thing performed by a symphony orchestra with a festival chorus. More like the caught wisp of a melody, floating out of an open window on one of those rare, fine days when open windows might be acceptable in our part of the country. You might only catch a few notes, a rise and fall of phrase. But when you do. When you do. It may just give you the courage to wage peace in this world, where all the violence seems continually new.
