Arable

I sift the dust through hungry fingers,
The stalks of dreams lie about like rags;
My parched throat cries to a cloudless sky,
But I hear nothing in reply…

Woe is me! I’ve built my life
Upon the dust of empty hopes;
I’ve planted crops in rocky soil
And I’ve gained nothing by my toil…

My soul is bankrupt—all is lost—
’Cause I can’t turn this dust to bread;
Nothing turned out as I planned,
I cannot pay my debts with sand…

But if I give this land to you
Can you transform my dusty soil?
Can you make crops grow out of pain,
And make the cloudless skies to rain?

Can love make barren ground produce?
Can grace now make me arable?
Can you, my God, turn dust to bread
And can you even raise the dead?