Lord, you made a king from clay,

And set a crown upon his head.

Before a need was on his lips,

You knew it. He asked for life, 

And you lengthened his days.

You breached the levee of your love

And your ways flooded through him.

He became a hollow hand, 

raised and waiting, and you filled it.

He became a mirror,

And you tipped him toward your light.

Blessing ran over his palms like water;

He scooped it up and drank.

But your hand will let the wicked reach

Only so far before you catch them out.

They seem strong as stone,

But they’re stubble

That blackens and blows away

When your wrath erupts around them.

Their mighty plans have brittle seams.

They storm forward beneath bright banners,

Never to return. Their hands hold

The engines of power.

They launch volleys

That black out the sun,

But their arrows bend back

To land around their own feet.

Lord, you lift up those 

Who raise their hands in need to you,

And humble those who stretch 

Their strength to strike and rend.

In the end, every mouth will open in praise

Or shut in awe and fear

When your justice comes

And the day draws near.