I read them this morning, words of emptiness and ache. Words of deep hope.

“We do not see our signs. . .”

Along with our signs, our emblems, we have lost our identity. We no longer remember who we are.

“There is no longer any prophet. . .”

No words from the Holy cry the pain and the answer, the judgement and the promise of healing. No voice swallows emptiness with hope.

And, perhaps hardest of all,

“There is no one among us who knows how long.” (Psalm 74:9)

We wait without knowing till when.

“YET. . .”

“God my King is from ages past,

working salvation in the earth.” (v. 12)

This is the time-tested confidence that gives hope, the voice that speaks strong when other words are silenced. In the night of winter, sap stirs deep. In silent hiddenness, life wakens. God is at work.