What is Your hand, O LORD? How vast a shadow do
You throw? Is the night Your sideways sweep,
palm down? I
hear You are multitudinous and all-mighty too.
Enemies have crumbled, crest-fallen, pushed to weep
with lost eye,
hand or heart in front of You. Your hand, O LORD,
sends the gentle breeze, the violent whirlwinds,
simply when
You move. Those currents, chilled or sultry, like a sword
cut us through all year round, remind us of sins
and then
leave of us to stand until a promised return. Did
Your hand touch Adam’s? Did Your hand
grip Eve’s shoulder
after apple-eating, during lesson-giving? Bid
me long life—Your will be done—Make warm the land
You offer, though man grows ever colder.
Michael P. Carriger
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