Recently, the Israelis started to bomb mosques in Gaza. I’ve seen a small amount of video, which I won’t repeat here…but when I felt my way through that a little tonight, I wept copiously, and prayed fervently…
and as I wept and prayed, I wrote the English sonnet that follows.
—
Sometimes
Sometimes, I am a burnt-out Gazan mosque;
Sometimes, I am the hand that holds the flare.
Sometimes, I pray my earnest prayers at dusk
And feel them melt like vapour in the air.
Sometimes, my rage is like a red, red rose
That blossoms underneath a Syrian moon.
Sometimes, it’s like a hemlock plant that grows
To choke the dreams of children gone too soon.
My fury’s not a toxin; it’s a flame
Fed by the holy, righteous, steadfast ire
Of One who gives each star its secret name
And winnows grain with forks of living fire.
Good, loving Sovereign of time and space,
Come down and help us with Your saving grace.
A lovely sonnet. Thank you for writing.
Thanks, Mary!