Song of Zion

When you need to remember — that You're still my Shepherd.

You can find yourself sitting in a place you did not choose, surrounded by people who do not understand what you lost — and they are asking you to perform like the loss has not happened. "Sing one of the old ones for us," they say, like grief is on demand. You hang your instrument on a tree and sit by a river that is not your river and weep. You do not need to sing past it. The prayer for this exile is the rage and grief that says, "How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?"

This is one of the rawest prayers in the whole book. "By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof." Instruments unplayed, hung on trees — the music gone silent because the place that gave it meaning was gone. Then the captors twist the knife: "For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song... saying, 'Sing us one of the songs of Zion.'" The people who burned the home are now demanding the worship. The exiles refuse: "How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" That is integrity. Some grief refuses to be entertainment. Then the vow: "If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning... if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy." Better the hand goes useless than the home goes uncherished. The close turns the rage outward, and the words get terrible. "Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem... O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed." This is the people of God refusing to pretend the violence done to them was nothing, handing every drop of it back to the only One who is allowed to judge it. The honesty is the prayer.

• Right now, do not force yourself to sing past where you actually are — pray out loud: "How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" and let Him take the question. • Write this down: "What loss am I being asked to perform around as if it did not happen?" • Repeat this line when the captors press for mirth: "If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning."

Stop. Breathe. Let the harps hang on the willows, and let the grief be the prayer — then tell Him exactly how strange the land you are in actually feels — out loud if you can.

God, by the rivers of this place I did not choose, I have sat down and wept, and I am tired of being asked to perform around it. I will not perform "the songs of Zion" as entertainment for the people who did the wasting — that phrase belongs to You. You see the willows, the silent harps, the room of grief I have been sitting in. Do not let me forget what was lost; do not let me prefer anything above the place You have chosen to dwell. And the rage I have over what was done — I will not act it out; I will hand it to You, because vengeance is Yours and judgment is Yours. You're still my Shepherd, even by the rivers of Babylon.

Some grief is not for performance — the God who hears the question will eventually answer.