The Wolf and the Lamb
I've listened to the echoes of their speeches—
the same worn-out words,
a polished stone of promises
rolled from one generation to the next.
The history books are stained with ink
of what should have been, of what could be,
a litany of broken covenants.
They talk of peace,
but their hands are still stained with the dust of the old walls,
the ones they tore down with righteous fury,
only to build new ones, higher,
with barbed wire for a crown.
They speak of freedom,
but their voices are hollow bells,
ringing over fields where the bones
of my sisters and brothers lie unburied,
a testament to the silent wars.
I am tired.
My spirit is a dry well,
parched by the sun of so many false dawns.
I remember the stories my grandmother told,
her eyes, deep as ancient scripture,
speaking of a justice that never came.
I see the same look in my daughter’s eyes now,
a weary mirror reflecting the same old fight.
How long, O Lord? How long until the wolf lies with the lamb,
and the child can play in the serpent's den without fear?
How long until we are all sisters and brothers,
not just in name, but in the breaking of bread?
But a flicker remains.
A fragile, burning ember in the ash.
I see the young ones,
with their defiant songs and their banners held high,
their anger a holy fire.
They do not accept the old answers.
They demand a new world.
And in their fire, I see the promise of a morning star,
a tiny light in the deepest part of the night.
The seeds of grace are buried deep,
and with every tear, with every raised fist,
we water them.
I still believe in a coming kingdom
where righteousness will flow like a river,
and peace will be a song we all can sing.
It is a hard hope, earned in the trenches of the soul,
but it is the only one that truly lives.
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