The prophet's reward, the prophet's reward,
cisterns, and deserts, people's scorn,
the sword.
"I have not come to bring peace,
but a sword."
Not one to kill,
but one in turn turned back,
not in suicidal wish,
but by the way of the world
where all is on its head.
Love is hated
and brick upon brick,
steel beam teamed with steel beam
building nothing but prisons
for the days remaining.
And a sword of revolution,
not bloody, today,
but throwing down the bricks
that block our hearts
from the love of God,
the love of God in a neighbor.
No, I'm sorry, they will not understand.
The prophet's word is never understood,
but it is trampled upon
if ever heard.
Yet, it remains,
in the crimson stains
in the soil,
the remembrance of the knowing smile,
a sign of joy in the midst of burden,
with eyes raised to the heavens,
and lowered to the ground.
Be not on the mind of kings,
in their favor or debt,
but perhaps in their dreams.
And dream, too,
of the rush of waters
that have passed over,
not drowning.
Sit still, and speak, whisper,
the name of the Lord.
From your tongue to your mind
deep into your heart, gently beating,
through your veins and being.
Walk in the desert,
in the vast array of dryness,
the reward of faithfulness,
with a peace somehow coupled
with a sword,
the prophet's reward.
(Exodus 1:8-14, 22, Psalm 124, Matthew 10:34-11:1)
Monday, July 16, 2007
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