And Rachel Is Still Weeping
The stone that was rejected
now hovers overhead.
The sword of retribution
still dangles by a thread.
The careless laugh and squander,
the hungry starve away.
Men mock the storm and thunder,
deny the coming day.
They bomb, exploit and plunder –
of necessity they say.
And Rachel still is weeping
for the babes slain at her feet,
in Ramah ever keeping
her bloodstained swaddling sheet.
No longer do they crucify;
they poison, gas and maim.
No martyr do they glorify
or honour by a name.
But the greatest lie they proffer,
it is not that God is dead –
“He’s sleeping,” says the scoffer,
“on yon high and lofty bed.”
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