God of Ash Wednesday,whose hands first gathered dust to create us,whose Spirit breathed new life into brittle bones,whose fingers traced the sand to save a sinner,take the dirt of my life -the tempers lost,the doors slammed,the complaints muttered,the harsh words thrown,the dark doubts seethed -take all these flaws and failingsand burn them blazingin the fire of forgiveness.
Gather the dust that lingers, the ashes streaked across your healing hands,and trace the ancient crossonce again across my forehead.Press its humbling love deep into my mind and heart,let it sink into my soulreminding me that life is fleeting as the dark grey dust.
And when I see the same stark sign of sin and deathmarked on the soft faces of my children,let me breathe in the beauty of now,this present we have together,this gift of a life sharedno matter how dark or dry it sometimes seems.
Let the touch of another's hand on my bowed headremind me of resurrection,of hope and promisethat we are mere dustand yet more -beloved in your eyes,our chins cupped in your handswith a parent's loving touch,our faces traced by the same fingersthat forever bear the printsof every ashen life they touch.
Amen.
God of Ash Wednesday, whose hands first gathered dust to create us, whose Spirit breathed new life into brittle bones, whose fingers traced the sand to save a sinner, take the dirt of my life - the tempers lost, the doors slammed, the complaints muttered, the harsh words thrown, the dark doubts seethed - take all these flaws and failings and burn them blazing in the fire of forgiveness. Gather the dust that lingers, the ashes streaked across your healing hands, and trace the ancient cross once again across my forehead. Press its humbling love deep into my mind and heart, let it sink into my soul reminding me that life is fleeting as the dark grey dust. And when I see the same stark sign of sin and death marked on the soft faces of my children, let me breathe in the beauty of now, this present we have together, this gift of a life shared no matter how dark or dry it sometimes seems. Let the touch of another's hand on my bowed head remind me of resurrection, of hope and promise that we are mere dust and yet more - beloved in your eyes, our chins cupped in your hands with a parent's loving touch, our faces traced by the same fingers that forever bear the prints of every ashen life they touch. Amen.
