The red chord
Horns herald a rumbling resonating below,
dust bursts in the window as stones fall from the sky:
our half-gone wall through our half-gone ceiling.
Patron gods stumble off the table to the floor cracking
as I crouch with my three daughters clenched tight,
unable to protect them from screams of half-gone family and
friends begging in the street for their children’s lives,
as Yahweh’s people cut down our sons and daughters.
The door remains motionless till the screams cease and
their old chieftain hobbles through on blood-stained sandals
casting the spies’ red chord to the floor.
When on the mountain
When on the mountain,
I know I am living for You
just maybe, not everyday.
When in the valley,
suspect, dark, done for
just want to pronounce Your name.
On that knob, hallow to my heart
I cried serving–undeservingly
washing familiar sandals that walked close by,
begging, “Come tear my bread today.”