UCCF have produced a poetic interpretation of Psalms 42 and 43 called ‘Where is my God?’ Millie Styles reads it here. Of the poem UCCF says, ‘This poem is a reflection on the repeated refrain ‘Where is your God?’ in Psalm 42, read in the context of contemporary urban life’.
The words of the poem, written by Rael Mason are available to download. I’ve posted them here, hoping that I’ve thereby not breacehd any copyright legislation.
Day and Night. My daily plight.
Attacks from across society. Attacks that don’t come quietly.
Stuck in a world that taunts me. Stuck with the words that haunt me.
‘Where is your God?’
At times I ask that myself.
Behind closed doors. Laid out on all fours. At one with the floor.
And I thirst.
I thirst for Him who said ‘Thirsty? Come to me and drink.’
We had days, dancing in abundant streams, showered by waterfalls that glistened and gleamed.
I crawl through desert lands. On worn out knees and dried out hands.
Some nights all that’s passed my lips, are the tears that brushed the tips. Of my mouth.
Tears that fall from the eyes, that lift to the skies, while my mind only cries,
‘Why are you downcast O my soul?’ When you know the One who’s made you whole?
Where is your God?
The nation’s top comedians, the heads of global media, those who edit the ‘truth’ on Wikipedia.
They’ve made their minds up on ‘religion’; the word itself brings such derision.
But the ‘god’ they dismissed is the one they created, not the one who created.
Putting God in a box! Nailed shut by clever man‐made knocks. And bury him.
Bury Him? Maybe their quaint pictures of ‘god’, but not the God‐of‐the‐Scriptures, God!
Where is my God?
‘Where’s Da Vinci in the Mona Lisa?’ ‘Where’s Michelangelo in the Sistine?’
Every inch of work bares the artist’s mark, however flawed or pristine.
And in the picture of me, God’s not just part of it, He’s the heart of it.
He’s the materials, the artist, and Creator of what art is.
He allows my life’s picture to exist with all its imperfections, not ‘cos He’s an imperfect artist, or mean and callous and heartless.
My picture’s this way so that I can be in it, and rather than burn it or bin it,
He lovingly crafts at the cracks and decays, He tends to me slowly, adding colour to greys.
‘til He restores me to His masterpiece; His ‘meant to be’.
Here is My God