To the Director. A confession from the remnant.
Oh, God, we know your works of old: how you fashioned earth from nothing, framed a piece of it called Canaan, filled it with slaves-turned-refugees, and forged a nation to fulfill a promise.
All of this was done by your providence and power, not the mind or might of Israel. You gave her a place and purpose, for you delighted in her.
Your works continue, as we know firsthand. Our lives you reclaimed. Our souls you saved. Tongues you tamed. Minds you trained. In you we boast continually, keenly aware that our victories come by your providence and power, not our minds or might. You give us place and purpose, for you delight in us.
Why, then, do we face constant disgrace?