God of Jeremiah, grieving with an aching heart
for an empire, unbelieving as it falls apart,
when your thunder goes unheard, we will tend the prophet's word
an in season, out of season, we will sing your song.
When our wound is left to fester, though the pain goes deep,
when we've sown a hundred whirlwinds, but have yet to reap,
when the platitudes of peace only make our fears increase,
with a poem and a story we will sing your song.
When the palace looks at poverty with scornful eyes,
when the scroll of truth is shredded by a leader's lies,
when the glory of the cross is a propaganda gloss,
in the square and in the senate we will sing your song.
We will break the jar of plenty by the gates of gold,
we will buy a field of promise when the farm is sold,
at the ending of the dream, in the death of false esteem,
at the bank and in the market we will sing your song.
We will praise the grainy granite of the Law's demands,
and the Life-creating, Lover-God with wounded hands;
we will spin your storyline to an empire in decline,
an in exile or in honor we will sing your song.