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by Ward Stothers

 

Lord, on the day the innocents died,
We rail and yet ache
for the insane Terrorist—all of them.
I can’t believe you not only created him,
But branded infinite worth
And a touch of redemptive gifting for him
Made in God’s image, to help others?
What went wrong!
How can you claim him as your human?

We do recognize the motivation but,
Through your grace not the act,
The loss of his group, nation, people or religion,
Drowned in a systematic riptide of death,
Gunship helicopters versus their cold, round, smooth,
Davidic stones,
Swallowing up family, faith, breath and life.
Maybe even genocide
In this century of extinctions.

Is holding on to this title of Defender, justified,
When innocents are selected as symbolic sacrifices?
Their emotion has left and run,
Shell of once human,
Their life has been extinguished
And they are walking death.
Though they peck away at their Symbolic Satans
With detonator caps
Glued and squeezed between their bloodlet fingers,
God is not on any side of
Power-pouring and death-inviting
Violence.

But born to die for us
Showing life endless, graphic and creative,
You are not rumored to be
But concretely evident and present
Pleading in whistles of Spirit air,
Tears, and kingly regard,
Searching the arrogant prodigal,
Waiting for a return of this herd
Of run aways—

You have chosen us, steer riders
To herd the world
Back to life, everywhere,
In peaceful shalom
With you God
Carrying the feed of life
Peace is coming   Peace has come.

Copyright © 2003 Ward Stothers