O God, take up this day,
cradle it like the newborn thing that it is,
turn it this way and see the pink sunrise,
the bruise of clouds, the barely-lit night
which to you is as bright as the day,
though I can hardly see your hand
before my face;
lift it to your Word
and hear the mourning dove,
the morning alarm, the siren; discern
whether it be a threat or a prayer. Speak –
no, sing to it a lullaby in a minor key,
turn its pain into melody.
Our times are in your hands, O God,
and we cannot handle them without you.