Where O Lord is that land of your promise,
The one flowing with milk and with honey?
Broken and distant, covered in fragments,
We buzz like bees but make nothing.
We ache to belong and partake of your goodness,
Not only to blossom but bear fruit.
We give of our wombs, yet we labor in vain,
Our creative endeavors interrupted.
Forty years in the desert, all a pattern of failure;
Lord, how do we cycle in grace?
To BECOME as you are and return to your image,
We retreat and stand still in Your presence.
Roll away the reproach we have carried so long;
Pour your oil down upon us at Gilgal.
And when we are filled we’ll go out from this place,
To bind up the hearts of the wounded.
We’ll enjoin the assembly with joy in our hearts.
Bearing honeypots and wine vats, we’ll present you.