Grace: a poem

In a quiet garden, on a still night
Amidst sleeping friends
And encroaching traitors
wet with sweat and tears
he prayed
and trembled
and prayed

“Let it be another way.”

But it wasn’t. But it wasn’t.

And so hung to die, on a wooden cross
at the hands of government
in the face of a complicit crowd
thirsty and terrified
he prayed
and hoped
and prayed

“Let me be the last.”

But he wasn’t. But he wasn’t.

And so down through endless centuries
and on this present autumn night
death has won and violence has ruled
as we have killed one another
and he prays
and weeps
and prays.

And I weep and I pray and I wonder
how he faced that cross
with the trembling hope
that it might mean he’d be the last.

And I weep and I pray and I wonder
how we must disappoint him
how we must break his heart.

And I weep and I pray and I wonder
how he can not be done with us yet.

But he isn’t. But he isn’t.

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