Soiling Your hands with my formation
muddy rivulets stained Your arms of creation,
and lifeless mud I would’ve remained
but You breathed new life and called my name.
You knew the cost when this mud would say,
“I’ll be the master, though I am but clay.”
You knew even then how Your words would burn,
“For dust you are- to dust return.”
But on this patch of dry dust You tabernacled,
pitching Your tent where in love You had shackled
Your pierced hands, which for me now twice muddied,
wearing my filth, all broken and bloodied.
Dare I call this day ‘Good’ which entombed You in dust,
inviting my miry soul to trust
that I shall see scarred hands clean again
when You restore the fortunes of this land?
Then, Creator, make of me what You will.
I give You each prairie, each glade, and each hill
to cultivate and plant each plot as Your own
until I produce all the good that You’ve sown.
*Sarah Dixon Young