“Thus did Job continually.” Job 1:5
Sometimes when a man dies
it’s only his children who knew
The contours of a smile turned up
when troubles pulled him down
The soft tears of laughter formed
in the crucible of tenderness
The quick retort of a word marked
by pain — the fear that he was not
enough. But do they know his
prayers? These shall live on
“Because this people has rejected the gently flowing waters of Shiloah…”
Isaiah 8:6
Send me to the gentle flowing waters of Shiloah.
I would flee these tall halls reeking of despair,
where men move like ghastly shadows
and women are chased by whispers in the air.
O, the normal people with eyes that do not see.
They ascend in cages to empty rooms
but are no better — hearts without space for keys
and glassy views staring back with gloom.
Anxiety stalks us equally no matter the hour.
No enemies are required for this disease.
We yearn for an eternal healing flower,
yet no peace is found in a lonely ease.
Whispers seem louder in dark alleys.
Send me to the gentle flowing waters of Shiloah
and I will consider your grace in all my valleys.
I will drink deeply of your spring, Yeshua.
I. O Mortal, what is required of thee?
To act justly.
When
the man at the top
refuses to be
the man at the bottom
he will not be
for the people.
II. O Mortal, what is required of thee?
To love mercy.
When
your counsellors have retired,
When
your news is on repeat,
When
your body has resigned,
do you sleep?
III. O Mortal, what is required of thee?
To walk humbly with my God.
When
the man at the bottom
refuses to be
the man at the top
he will not be
for himself alone.
Just a stick in the mud.
You struck me with
those careless words
a little phrase
it turned my head.
I filed it till
it became a bowl
fit for blood, sweat
and bitter tears.
With those shavings
I stoked a fire whose
flames smelled of
cold cursed ambition.
I stoked it
till it nearly
killed me.
I stoked it
’till true wisdom
turned me
against the grain
of your casual
disregard.
good fences
good neighbours make
but now we build walls
great cedar walls
now the neighbour
owns the sun
’till middle hours
shorten shadows
and the garden
joyfully awakes
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Six Foot Notes