Notes About The Poem
image from stablediffusion.com
OMNISCENCE WRAPPED IN RAGS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Four centuries stacked like stones,
each year a weight
on the chest of heaven.
Prophets became ash in the wind,
their embers cold,
their parchments brittle.
Then~
not in the temple
where men strained to hear,
not in the desert
where fire once spoke,
but in a backwater hovel,
where livestock chewed their cud.
A gasp.
A shudder.
A mother’s blood on the earth.
And then~
sound.
Not the trumpet blast of Sinai,
not the whirlwind that answered Job,
but the thin, wet wail of newborn lungs,
puncturing the quiet like a knife
through paper.
Omniscience, wrapped in rags,
drew its first shuddering breath.
The angels,
who had bitten their tongues
for four hundred years,
could not contain themselves~
They split the sky with song,
startling shepherds
outside Bethlehem’s gates.
The first cry was a declaration:
Here.
The last would be an absolution:
Done.
Between them~
thirty-three years of footsteps,
of splinters, of bread broken,
of a voice that refused
to go quiet again.
When they tried to silence Him
with nails, with thorns,
the earth itself cracked open
and roared No~
because eternity,
once loosed,
does not return to the tomb.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
