Psalms Project, Week 3

Sep 9, 2020

Images:  Nina Bisognani and Barbara Ryther



Lamentation Psalm


My heart cries, my very bones weep.

Emotions wrap tightly around me, binding my hands and my breath.

My steps are seasoned with the salt of my tears.

Anguish pours unstopped through me, suffocating my thoughts and my voice.


I am sorrow at the people and places I am now kept apart from.

I am grief at the millions of people suffering and dying.

I am anxiety at the divisions that tear us from each other.

I am anger at the lack of answers.

I am alienation from the people who don’t think as I do.


Who will hear me?

Who will release me?

I  turn blindly to my God.


My God is the past, present and future, for whom ‘now’ is less than a moment.

My God is comfort to those who are sick and grieving, and a welcome home to those who die.

My God is a world of living beings, all created in His unknowable but familiar image.

My God is answered prayer, even when the answer is not heard or understood.

My God is the God of people who don’t think as I do.


My God will hear me.

My God will release me.

I turn obediently to my God.


By, Barbara Ryther



Enough: A psalm for modern times


My God, you have blessed me,

For I have enough.

My home is not a mansion:

It is cluttered, cramped and sometimes needs repair.

But it is enough in a world where others have no home.

I am not perfectly fit:

My weight is high, my knees not always strong,

But it is enough in a world where others are dying.

I sometimes feel alone:

My tweets don’t garner likes; my “friends” don’t call.

But it is enough in a world where many despair.


And yet, while I may have enough, my world does not.

My world, the world you made, cries out in pain.

Injustice and intolerance flow like a polluted stream

Through your magnificent creation.

Disease and poverty cut with indiscriminate siege,

With no regard to guilt or innocence.

I gaze into the beauty of your sky,

And raise an angry fist — but, Lord, to whom?

I know you hate this wickedness as well,

You cry with us when we cry out to you.

And so I see my own fist in the sky,

And know I have not truly done enough.


By, Melanie M. Kyer