seven ::seventeen

People of Bethsaida, of the sea,
of the land touched by miracles
wondrous and simple.
The people of a promised presence
which you have known
but ignore, reason away,
denying its release,
please offer an ear, a second glance.
See, floating in the river,
among the lily pads and rocks,
a voice,
a whimpering child of a voice.
It was heard once,
but it forgot how to listen,
but years away were to train it,
to give words through a brother,
the breath of God in the air
and freedom on the sands.
The river, flowing into a swamp,
between pyramids and obelisks,
monuments to impressive,
yet torturous and fruitless labors.
Oh, you people,
you believe you are on safe waters.
Be no longer deceived.
Assume no longer your comforts,
no longer a cool breeze.
This land has forgotten,
has forsaken,
taken in vain lives,
miracles, simple and profound,
and in turn drowned
the healing vocabulary of sorrow.
For sorrow turns to joy
when taken into the heart,
into the fabric of the days garment.
Yet you point at the sad estate
of others you will not touch
or approach in kindness.
Will you not turn,
people next to the waterway,
the procession path to the alter?
Please, in silence, listen.

(Exodus 2:1-15, Psalm 69, Matthew 11:20-24)