You See Into My Secrets

Riffing on Psalm 32:

You see into my secrets,
forever open-eyed;
what I have buried deepest,
from you I could not hide.
You see into my failure,
my anger, and my shame;
you know the sins I cherish,
and still you call my name.

O God, I have been silent
while embers burned in me:
I have not wept or cried out,
nor set my anger free.
But you, who hear the stars sing,
hear what I do not say:
You know my heart still hard'ning,
but have not turned away.

Then, Lord, hear my confession
of sins you know full well.
O, hear and give me blessing,
though things unblessed I tell.
Put out the burning embers,
the buried bones renew
as softness I remember
and turn again to you.

The page from the Seven Pentiential Psalms for Five Voices by Simon Bar Jona Madelka. – Madelka, Simon Bar Jona; Michl, Jakub (preface) (2007). Sedm kajících žalmů pětihlasem vyzdobených. Prague: Editio Bärenreiter, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5633440

Serve the Lord

To the tune NICAEA (“Holy, Holy, Holy”), for the confession and repentance of sins like white supremacy and prejudice.

Serve the Lord with gladness; serve God and no other.
Worship and adore alone the maker of all things.
Turn from death and madness; turn to one another:
Kneel and confess the sins vainglory brings.

Sister, I have harmed you, thinking myself better;
though you bear the face of God I have refused to see.
Brother, I have wounded, bound you in my fetters,
shackled to gods of self-sufficiency.

Father of all people, here I bow before you:
I have worshiped other gods; my heart I have defiled.
I, my brother's keeper, hear his blood cry to you:
God, hear his voice in every weeping child!

Shatter, Lord, our idols! Purify our temples!
Cast into your glory's fire our fig leaves and our pride,
all that hides us from you, all that serves the tempter,
lies that we have in pretense deified.

Tear down falsehood's shrines, Lord. Come, renew our worship.
Stone by stone dismantle all that does not serve your name,
then remake our lives, Lord. Build new hearts and churches
where you can dwell unsullied by our shame.

A shrine near Luže in Slovenia, Photo By Sl-Ziga – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3688355

Peter’s Confession

Jesus went into the region of Caesarea Philippi and
he asked his disciples,
“Who do people say that the Son of Man is?”
They replied, “Some say John the Baptist, others Elijah,
still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.”
He said to them, “But who do you say that I am?”
Simon Peter said in reply,
“You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
Matthew 16:13-16

To the tune NON DIGNUS (“Oh Lord, I Am Not Worthy”):

We hear the prophets' echo
in every word you speak
and find in your reflection
the very God we seek.

A teacher and a healer
in word and work divine,
our inner selves' revealer
and star that in us shines.

In every note we hear it,
how sharper than a sword
that pierces soul and spirit:
your word to us, oh Lord.

Elijah or the Baptist,
great Moses come again—
No, Teacher, you surpass them:
the Son of God made man.

The long-looked-for Messiah
we know you, Lord and God,
desired and our desirer
who has his seekers called.

You summon us; we meet you
and bow your truth before.
The Christ himself we greet you,
confessing evermore.

Pietro Perugino‘s *Christ Giving the Keys to St. Peter*, c. 1482 By Pietro Perugino – http://surveyofwesternart.haloslinkup.net/studymaterial/276_delivery_keys.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8385182

Confessional

Come touch and open up my eyes,
oh Christ, who made the blinded see.
The deafened hear, and so must I,
the muted voices you set free.

Those voices that cry out for right,
for justice—lo! They cry to heav'n,
condemning all my pride of might.
I know that justice shall be giv'n.

For you have numbered all the stars
and know each soul bowed down in chains.
You see their wounds and feel their scars
and treasure each one as your claim.

Then take the heart my pride has maimed;
what I made stone, as flesh renew.
My spirit, by my hatred lamed,
raise up, that it may limp to you.

Take my complacent, withered hands
and stretch them out for healing's sake,
at last to do what right demands,
these chains I made to turn and break.

You, Lord, are justice for th'oppressed,
who bear your image, just as I.
My own injustice I confess:
Give me repentance ere I die.