Mountain Prayer for a Land Called Appalachia
I lift my eyes to the mountains
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord.
And yet, O Lord,
When I lift up my eyes to the ancient hills we call Appalachia
They are hurting
They are devastated
They need help
The streams swelled
The creeks turned chaos
The rivers raged
The valleys are veiled not in grace and splendor; but debris and confusion.
Soaked in sorrow, laden with lament
The land we call Appalachia is groaning
A groaning, O God, that we confess, is not her fault, for she was innocent from the beginning
The rivers that once ministered to hurtful souls have taken home and hearth
Land that cared for centuries of generations, has been ravaged by the power of nature
Proud mountain tops, looked down in mourning upon the scene below.
I lift my eyes to the mountains
O God
And my heart hurts
And my heart breaks
And my heart cries
So Word from heaven, speak your word to the land that is a bit closer to heaven.
Speak your ancient words, ever true, to all within those ancient mountains - older than the Alps, wiser than that Andes - the land we call Appalachia.
From the blue ridges and smoky tops, to the gorges, valleys and towns below, there lives a people with the faith to move a mountain.
Yet, our prayer, O God, is not that you would move mountains, but that you would heal the mountains, heal the land we call Appalachia.
So, God, while the pain will linger and the healing will be slow
Your mountains are still a canvas of glory, a symphony within creation.
And for that, we thank you for the land called Appalachia
And we confess and we believe that her blue hues, bald tops, craggy peaks, gentle creeks, wild gorges and heavenly valleys will still minister to souls, as an orchestra of wonder, a glimpse of glory, a tracing of your handiwork.
So as we pray for the land called Appalachia, let us also work to rescue, to save, to help, to listen, to speak, to donate, to give, to wait, and to go to the land called Appalachia, the land of stunning waterfalls, magnificent peaks and charming towns.
Send your angels, O God, to minister and care, to mend and restore.
From Marshall to Minneapolis, Old Fort to Valle Crucis, Asheville to Boone.
From Original Mast to River Arts, Booneshine to Homeplace, High Pastures to Rabbit Ridge.
From Chimney Rock to Howard’s Knob, Beech Mountain to Black Mountain, Bowlen’s Pyramid to Roan’s Highlands.
From Lost Cove to Lake Lure, Looking Glass to Altapass, Potato Hill to Thunder Hill
From the Linville to the French Broad, the Nolichucky to the New, the Catawba to the Watauga.
Be near Jesus, Come quick Spirit, Hold close Father the people of the land we call Appalachia, the land that reminds us where our help comes from.
-David Luke Whitehead, October 1, 2024
In honor of Aunt Lulu and in memory of Uncle Alan of Vilas, who taught me and showed me the wonder of the mountains.
Where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord.
And yet, O Lord,
When I lift up my eyes to the ancient hills we call Appalachia
They are hurting
They are devastated
They need help
The streams swelled
The creeks turned chaos
The rivers raged
The valleys are veiled not in grace and splendor; but debris and confusion.
Soaked in sorrow, laden with lament
The land we call Appalachia is groaning
A groaning, O God, that we confess, is not her fault, for she was innocent from the beginning
The rivers that once ministered to hurtful souls have taken home and hearth
Land that cared for centuries of generations, has been ravaged by the power of nature
Proud mountain tops, looked down in mourning upon the scene below.
I lift my eyes to the mountains
O God
And my heart hurts
And my heart breaks
And my heart cries
So Word from heaven, speak your word to the land that is a bit closer to heaven.
Speak your ancient words, ever true, to all within those ancient mountains - older than the Alps, wiser than that Andes - the land we call Appalachia.
From the blue ridges and smoky tops, to the gorges, valleys and towns below, there lives a people with the faith to move a mountain.
Yet, our prayer, O God, is not that you would move mountains, but that you would heal the mountains, heal the land we call Appalachia.
So, God, while the pain will linger and the healing will be slow
Your mountains are still a canvas of glory, a symphony within creation.
And for that, we thank you for the land called Appalachia
And we confess and we believe that her blue hues, bald tops, craggy peaks, gentle creeks, wild gorges and heavenly valleys will still minister to souls, as an orchestra of wonder, a glimpse of glory, a tracing of your handiwork.
So as we pray for the land called Appalachia, let us also work to rescue, to save, to help, to listen, to speak, to donate, to give, to wait, and to go to the land called Appalachia, the land of stunning waterfalls, magnificent peaks and charming towns.
Send your angels, O God, to minister and care, to mend and restore.
From Marshall to Minneapolis, Old Fort to Valle Crucis, Asheville to Boone.
From Original Mast to River Arts, Booneshine to Homeplace, High Pastures to Rabbit Ridge.
From Chimney Rock to Howard’s Knob, Beech Mountain to Black Mountain, Bowlen’s Pyramid to Roan’s Highlands.
From Lost Cove to Lake Lure, Looking Glass to Altapass, Potato Hill to Thunder Hill
From the Linville to the French Broad, the Nolichucky to the New, the Catawba to the Watauga.
Be near Jesus, Come quick Spirit, Hold close Father the people of the land we call Appalachia, the land that reminds us where our help comes from.
-David Luke Whitehead, October 1, 2024
In honor of Aunt Lulu and in memory of Uncle Alan of Vilas, who taught me and showed me the wonder of the mountains.
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