by Meghan Endahl
The Roots That Ache, photograph by Meghan Endahl
ROOTED IN THE HISTORY OF HIS NAME
Oh, Adonai, let me be
r o o t e d
in you,
everlasting
like the veins of a Bristlecone tree.
Let this not be
another poem but a
plea. And not just a plea but
utterances of worship, where from
my lips and through my finger tips
I write of your majesty so that
—though I too am often blinded—
they might see,
see you, my Yeshua, my
Prince of Peace.
I.
When I smell the morning dew,
when I touch the fragrant air,
I’m reminded of you,
Yahweh,
reminded of your promise,
not only the one of old
but the one made new,
every day made new—
I still
love you.
I still
forgive you.
I still call you my son,
my daughter.
II.
I hear you, Elohim,
whisper,
shout,
declare
the sovereignty of your creation,
for it is good.
The stars glow and worship you;
the trees sway and praise you;
the creatures of the sea and of the air
know and obey you,
for it is good.
I see you, Jehovah Rapha,
resting your hands on the sick,
filling their lungs with your breath,
scooping them into your arms, and
kissing their foreheads.
III.
It is you, Elohim Shama, who
seeks
for the ones who are lost,
weeps
for the ones who grieve,
dances
with the ones who praise,
laughs
with the ones who overcome.
IV.
I hear you, Yahweh Tsebaoth.
I fall on my knees,
let the dust of the earth
swirl up around me
as the nations rage and the kingdoms totter.
Your voice, it utters,
the earth
melts,
and the haunted, black figures of death,
dripping the blood of sin
—they bow to you.
And then, after a while,
we rise.
V.
One after another
pulled from the caverns of fear,
chains once around our ankles now broken,
because you, Morning Star, Jehovah Palat,
made a way.
You are
The Way,
The Truth,
You are Life.
VI.
I feel us rise,
hundreds and thousands coming
out of the fog,
born again through your blood of righteousness,
bearing the banners of your truth.
All of us
SINGING
your praises on our lips!
Oh, Yahweh Shalom, Jehovah Jireh,
Jehovah Makkeh!
VII.
Let our trumpets sound;
let our voices carry;
let our drums beat the heart of your
everlasting grace,
everlasting mercy.
Let us be
rooted
in your name, your promise,
your goodness, oh
Ancient One.
At the foothold of Jesus Christ,
from whom roots have no beginning
and have no end,
let us be planted,
seeds into soil.
Oh Adonai,
let me be
r o o t e d
in you.
MEGHAN ENDAHL
Meghan is a Christ-centered author who writes stories for families and young adults that stir wonder, adventure, and a deeper longing for truth. A homeschooling mom of two and graduate of Eastern Michigan University’s Creative Writing program, Meghan’s love of story is rooted in imagination, faith, and a belief that beauty and hope matter, especially in hard seasons. As a Stage IV Colon Cancer survivor for nearly four years, her writing is a calling to testimony, stringing words together in between lesson planning, prayer, and perpetually reheated cups of coffee.
Connect with her: