I was struck seven times.
And each time I withheld my tongue.
I clenched my fist, yet kept it mine,
Not used against the face of the erred young.
Their words thunder through my mind,
I kneel on concrete, painted
With divisive markings of white.
I look up at the sky, tainted,
And hear the battle cry of lightning.
Their daggers left me wounded,
The bleeding spills and cries
From clouds polluted
With smoke of our crossed lives.
The lightning lands next to me.
The clouds howl as it strikes the ground,
I do not shiver.
The crowds of old foes sound
Through the tether
Of the bolt from earth to heaven.
In the crash I hear their insults,
In the wake I hear their betrayal.
The light flashes scenes now old
As I recall
Their vices embodied by hardened hail.
I am struck seven times.
And this time my tongue is in check.
My fist does not clench
Itself, yet instead
The weight befalls my heart,
And I grip my chest.
My heart races in the storm,
Each hail drop caught
And bought by the wind,
Is a sinner distanced from Him.
Those who struck me
Remain distanced of their own volition.
Such decisions
Hurt. And ache. And weigh
The mass of flesh’s earth.
They lack wisdom,
I wish they’d seek her.
They seek seldom
The means to be certain
Of their salvation.
And it kills me.
Upon each hail hitting hard the concrete,
I bawl and bellow
And belt to the heavens,
“Why can’t they see You?”
The prayer of a righteous man
Is powerful and effective,
I am made righteous
As You choose.
I beg once they’re forgiven,
“Find them, all those who lost You.”