A prayer of lament 
for the fourth Sunday of Advent; 
Inspired by Micah 5 and the First Nations version of Mary’s song and by conversations 
with people on what life has really been like for them this year.
Set after the lighting of memory candles for those who have died and before a “cloth for the cradle” response in which torn fabric strips are laid in a bare manger.

How do we name you, God,
when the light lessens
and our thoughts darken
amid the pain and the struggle all around us?

How do we name you, God,
when we find ourselves bereft
of belief in life’s goodness or human potential 
or the capacity for change?

How do we name you, God, 
when fear sits deep inside like a cold stone
in doctors’ offices, counselling sessions,
lawyers’ chambers and waiting rooms? 

How do we name you, God, 
when grief has splintered our world 
into jagged shards of bittersweet memories 
that delight and wound us?

How do we name you, God, 
when our fragile human hearts are so tender with loss: 
of love, of land, of liberty, of lives never lived?

How do we name you, God, 
when long-held dreams dissipate and our legacies 
are aching wounds and frayed connections?

How do we name you, God, 
when lullabies cease to bring us sleep 
and light-hearted moments turn to shadow?

How do we name you, God,
when our words feel empty, 
our voices go unheard,
and days pass 
without a single soul saying our name?

O Child of Peace, 
come to us, here.
Hold all that we would hide.
Let your tears fall over each wounded part,
washing clean the hurt, 
and freeing our hearts
to receive some small solace.

Name yourself Peace, God.