Meditation XX
O God who waited for the sun to rise in old creation’s sky, then for the man to name his beasts, to hold his lover’s hand, and listen to the snake’s impatient lies; who waited while the line of Abram died within his body, while the promised land seemed farther from him than his promised clan, and while resentment crept into his eyes; who waited while the cries of infants ceased beneath the waters of the Nile, beneath the flames of your own kings, beneath the blades of conquerors, with justice rarely paid; have mercy. While we wait, break not yet’s teeth; meet us in the now of our high priest.
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This poem was generated by the author’s human mind with zero AI / LLM involvement.
To be met in our terrible time of waiting is a great mercy. Thank you, Mark, for this one. Especially as we go into the coming days. A poem is also a mercy.
Have mercy.