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
May 13, 2014