Monday 27 May 2019

His People



Like Venus rising after a storm,
Like the glory of sunrise,
Like fog lit up by street lamps,
Are the ones who work
In His name.
Circles of piano notes
Spiraling up,
Violin breaking through,
Drums creating the base,
To sing them home.
Hordes of heavenly warriors
Accompany them along,
Taking arrows
For God's beloved.
"Blessed are the people
To whom God is their God".
Isn't God Himself lucky,
That those are His people.
If I ever lose my God,
I shall cling to my people
To find Him again,
I'll wrap myself in the folds
Of His Land,
To search for Him
Under apple trees,
Behind olive saplings,
In the fields burnt and regrown,
In the valley where
He smote our enemies,
Buried their weapons,
Confused them and terrified them,
Dispersed them and blinded them,
The Lord of Hosts.
Bind your people to You,
As one man by a mountain,
Wrap us in the cloak of love,
Like a father carrying his son,
Take the grenade for us,
For we are but flesh and blood,
Reeds of the swamps
Clothed in doubt,
Cracked clay
And yellowed paper,
Bent down by age.
The wedding feast is set out,
But where is Your beloved?
Laundering her bloodied sheets,
Tending to wounds of her warriors.
The Mikve is waiting,
For rebirth.