I wrote this poem on the inauspicious occasion of the inauguration of President Bill Clinton in 1992. I felt it was prophetic at the time. Amazingly, I feel the power of its meaning even more now at the re-election of Barak Obama. I have changed a few lines according to the times, but its message remains the same.

Although I believe God sees politics and countries entirely differently than we do, there is a natural desire to see your “man” win. Even believers in God with solid moral values like a fighting chance with someone in office who appears more appropriate on the surface to do a good job.

The truth is no one knows how one will govern. And America is changing. It is not the same country that I grew up in. Black is white now, and wrong is right. And the choice of our leader is a reflection of our core values.

I don’t want to argue politics or people. God is in control, and the Church shines brightly in darkness. It is time for us to be the saltiest salt we can and the brightest light we can. We must pray for President Obama and all leaders to guide us rightly. And I commit to do so. I don’t feel hope is lost, because my anchor for tomorrow was never in Romney or any man. He was the better of two hard choices for me.

Still I can’t help but grieve and reflect a little today, so I offer…

I Weep

I weep while America celebrates,

Music and laughter ring from her heart

as she dances tomorrow’s

expectations. I weep.

Hope and healing are on her lips

but beyond her grasp.

America celebrates

the illusive American dream

in exchange for the gold of her freedoms,

the silver of her liberties. She does not

know now what she will lose for a free iPhone.

Although Marx died, his walls crumbled,

America’s faceless families still march

to his funeral dirge.

“Equal people we will be,” they say,

the people’s kingdom will care for us!”

Slaughtered babies shriek from cavernous graves,

and homeless souls line the streets.

America’s great heroes lust after their own kind,

demonstrate the rights of dogs and dolphins,

turn toward Allah and the god of prosperity,

and mock authority; many die too young.

Soon America will crown her chosen king

with rejoicing and with the hope of spring.

She calls the dark sky and gathering storm “new day.”

Upon their beds the people dream of their new king

and his promise to legislate her desires, but

the king will not satisfy her lust.

America’s rivers

run deep and wide for me.

I know of a kingdom beyond all others

and fix my heart above.

But today, today while America

celebrates, I weep.

And in my weeping, I hear the sound of rain.

© Bonnie Saul Wilks