Shaking Fists

They’re shaking fists at you

when the least little thing goes wrong.

Prancing with chipped shoulders

of entitlement, rising, gathering, hoarding

and calling it their own.

Fastly falling, they blame you for that too.

Never pausing to consider or thank the

source of strength or power or wealth or life itself.

Yet you don’t flinch

at the grand and putrid march of mad rebellion.

The sight of it passed before your eyes the

day you died as they pierced it into your

flesh and bruised your heart to death. You

swallowed the poison and descended

into hell, laying a sword to the serpent’s neck,

you won the war. Rising with the rusty keys of

and death and hell to join your Father’s side, angels

danced and sang as the victory of the ages ended.

You looked down from heaven to see they are still

shaking fists at you while Peter wept in a pool of

regret and Judas swung from a rope, alone

in the Field of Blood.

Romans 1:18-22; Luke 24; Revelations 1:18; Philippians 2:10

 

©Bonnie Saul Wilks

Jerusalem, Israel

May 13, 2014