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Writer's pictureAlisia Maendel

Psalm 42

Throat parched; I cry to you:

A babe at the breast of its Mother

Reaches up, a Madonna Eleusa

When shall I behold the face of my Lord?


The deep within you calls out

And draws out the deep within me

And it calls its Father, its Maker, in quiet

To seek you in all the ways you wish to be sought—


And finds Him

The Spirit in the sound—

The roaring, crying, groaning, of the wilderness in the wilderness.


And finds Him

In the suffering—

in the whispered mourning in the secret place

When shall I see your face?


And finds Him

In the spaces—

the lapse of night, the grey of dawn, the sigh, the pine.


And find Him

In the distance—

The spirit of the deep that longs for You

Is evidence of its creator.

In the creature who longs for greater depth

He allows himself to grow more distant:

For the reach and the stretch and the breaking and the strain.


The child cries for its mother and will not stop

Until it rests at her heart once more

For it knows the one who knows completely

The creature who longs for greater depth.


When shall I see the face of my Lord?

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