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Writings of Allen H. Richardson

My Psalm

Though he has all power and glory,
Wisdom and Might,
The great God of heaven and earth,
And all that in them are,
Creator of worlds without end,
Framer of suns, stars and orbs eternal,
Who fashioned the mountains and hills,
Who formed the glades and glens
The forests and meadows of the earth,
Does not call himself King, Ruler,
Sovereign, or Master.

Rather, He calls Himself my Father.

And though his voice of thunder
Can part the waters of the great deep,
Can divide the earth asunder,
And can shake the very foundations of Sheol,

He does not see me as his subject,
Servant, slave, or underling.

Instead, he calls me his son--even his heir.

O what love and devotion
That He would number my hairs
And watch them fall!
That He would count my steps
And the very throbs of my heart.

And though he has all riches, wisdom,
Joy and bliss,
He weeps when I stumble--when I fall--
When I sin.

Strange paradox that I,
In my hunger and thirst,
Should defy--even rebel at His request
That I return to Him .

But though he is the Great Judge,
Issuing laws and executing oracles,
With warnings of consequence,
He is quick to forgive and forget.

And though surrounded by innumerable hosts
Of cherubim, seraphim, and archangels,
His great desire is for me to return to him,
That He may hold and embrace me,
That He may clothe me in his robe,
That He may take me by the hand,
That He may build for me a mansion,
That He may grant me a kingdom
That He may sit with me.
To live with me forever.


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