Monday, February 28, 2005

If I make my bed in Sheol

A frightened widow
hung on to her son,
her broken heart,
her tears unceasing,
while darkness approached,
invading and dimming the light
he shone

and the darkness suffered
until the heavy purple clouds of heaven
wept and gave water
that mixed with the son's blood
and washed in variegated rivulets
through his matted hair,
down his stripped back,
around his bruised breast,
across his bear loins,
over his pierced feet,
a whelping flow which
poured onto the dry, hardened ground,
and sunk below its brazened surface.

Even below,
where no light had ever shone.

©Judy Eurey 3/04

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