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.”