(From 2 Chronicles 33:1-20)
(For part 1 of this poem, click on my name and select it from the list of poems I have written)
What life of empty, wingless prayers, blind adherence
To soothsayers, who could scarce foresee impending night
If present at descending flight of the setting sun;
What foolishness my court of silly sorcerers
Drawing from their wilted wizardís wit
To cast a bit of futile spellery for my benefit,
And those star-fixed gazers, eagerly translating
Planets and alignments into the futureís text,
Who like the rest, did not know one moment from the next;
For from this pool of prognosticationís plenty, not an hour
Was divined when freedomís fertile flower, uprooted from its
Rightful bed, would die a death a day, until my years
Locked away would rival those in libertyís bottomless well.
Where did I err, go wrong, fail to please the throng
Of restless Israelites pressing for the gods of old to rise
Again against the cold and rigid God of Hezekiah and
That promised for Messiah? Who wants to wait for God
To come when thereís one already here?
And yet, what horror now has crept into my heart?
A frigid truth that from the start was always there, a fact as
Boundless as the sky, and yet in order to deny its potent
Strength I stuffed it in a wineskin pouch and buried it alive;
At least I thought I did, yet here it stands so vital and
Strong, breathing with lungs that could suck the water from
The seas, and hands that could hold my kingdom as a grain
Of sand in its hefty palm, a beautiful strength that endlessly
Drinks from the ever-flowing fountains of Heaven-
Oh, Merciful Father, it was not truth that I buried, but ignorance
That I dug up, blinding stupidity that covered the eyes of my
Soul and exacted its toll from the pockets of my freedom.
Jehova, Yahweh, Lord of Lords I have committed countless misdeeds
Upon your chosen seed of Israel; I am a shepherd that herds
His trusting flock into the walk where wolves await; El Shadai,
It is I, who long to look on your eternal face but in disgrace must
Hide my eyes; I am truly unforgivable, corruptor of your charge,
Ravager of your precious children; yet I am sorry, Father, with
Words as hollow as bones of birds, I plead your mercy though I
Deserve it less I will confess than Satanís red valet; if you would
But glance at me in a manner just less of degree than pure disgust,
I truthfully trust my life of incarceration would seem a great salvation,
And as if in paradise will I survive these days in chains.
© 2004 Peter Andrew Nelson
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