Endless Grace by Ryan Whitaker Smith and Dan Wiltနမူနာ

Psalm 78

Sanctified Memory

Father,

grant me a sanctified memory

to recall the things You have done

in the midst of human history—

things hidden from the foundation of the world,

made manifest in the fullness of time.

May I,

with holy hindsight,

be one with all the saints before me,

as I tell Your story

again

and again—

that godly wisdom

be passed down,

generation

to generation.

In faithfulness,

You led the nation of Israel,

writing Your law upon their hearts,

setting before them Life and Death,

that they might flourish

in the land of their possession,

turning from the wickedness of their forebears—

from those who walked in defiance of Your truth,

who mocked Your wisdom.

May my heart be steadfast, O God.

Do not let me be like those who see

but do not believe;

who witness

but do not profess.

Your glory was displayed before them!

They saw seas parted,

Your presence in cloud and fire,

water drawn from stone . . .

but it was not enough.

They became bitter.

Resentful.

Unimpressed.

Unsatisfied.

You gave them food from heaven,

opened streams in the wilderness,

provided for their every need—

and still, they questioned Your goodness.

In the face of such faithlessness,

Your anger burned against them.

As for me,

may I be steadfast, O God.

Like them,

I have fallen prey to apathy and indifference—

though You have moved heaven and earth

to save me,

clothe me,

feed me—

my life sustained by Your active grace,

Your intentional kindness,

Your sheltering mercy.

All I have needed

You have provided:

Breath.

Bread.

Light.

Laughter.

Creation is Your kindness, externalized.

Despite Your providence,

I have courted resentment,

fostered discontent.

Was it not for this reason

that You struck down those who scorned You?

Forgive me, Lord.

Still, they did not relent.

Their pride made fools of them—

made them blind to Your providence,

deaf to Your grace.

They invited destruction upon themselves.

Like them,

I have repented,

sought Your face,

returned to Your mercy.

Like them,

my prayers were often empty words—

my promises hollow,

my faith spineless.

But in my faithlessness,

You have remained faithful.

In my brokenness,

Your blood has covered me.

You have grace for my fallenness,

mercy for my weakness.

Like all wayward saints before me,

I have wandered in desolate places,

choosing lostness over foundness,

drifting over belonging.

Have mercy on me, Lord.

If Your people could forget

their deliverance from Egypt,

when Your power was seen

in undeniable displays of glory—

all creation at Your command

as You rendered judgment over Your enemies—

miracles

and wonders,

plagues

and terrors—

then I, too,

am capable of forgetting

all You have done for me.

How often have You guided me to safety?

How often have You rescued me from ruin?

Your grace has made a way for me:

it has parted seas,

carved a path through the wilderness,

led me to a land of abundance,

to the mountain of Your presence.

But I have been reckless with Your mercy,

callous with Your commandments.

I have run after lesser gods,

driven by the lusts of the flesh and eye,

by the pride of life.

While judgment once fell upon the disobedient—

curses

and captivity,

death

and darkness,

the consequences of their rebellion—

Your cross has spoken life over me.

In Your mercy,

You have shouldered the weight of my sin,

borne my griefs

and sorrows,

ransomed me from ruin.

Have You not chosen the low things of the world—

the meek,

the forsaken,

the despised—

to bring about Your purposes?

You humble the proud,

exalt the humble—

for You are

Lord of the Lowly.

Defender of the Downcast.

King of the Contrite—

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Grant me a sanctified memory, Lord,

that I might not forget Your abundant mercies.

Amen.