"Our King"

(In reflection on Ezra, Nehemiah, and
The prophets of old on June 3, 2010).

Exiles return
To city in ruins
Charred remains
Of once golden temple
Dust and ash envelop
The mighty capital
City of King David

Vision of restoration
Rising from the rubble
Strongholds of opposition
Crumble before Almighty God
History's Grand Architect
The Master Builder
Our Carpenter King

Measuring state's boundaries
Plumb Line for the nations
Impaled by the
Tools of His trade
Pierced by the ones
He would save
Our Crucified King

Nailed to the very trees
He imagined in the beginning
Killed by His creatures
Sacrifice for their souls
The divine died
Ineffable mystery
Our Creator King

Resurrected and ascended
Interceding for us now
At the Father's right hand
Seated on His throne
Soon to judge the earth
The Just and the Justifier
Our Coming King

"Mounting the stair"

(Composed June 2010).

Starting on an upward trek
In the early afternoon
Joyful for the journey ahead
Excited to reach the heights
As I open the wooden door

Mounting the stair
Dark, narrow passageway
Steep and slim the steps
Clutching the ropes
I make my way up

Tiny slits of light
Beam between the stone
Offering a little guidance
Still leaving corners hidden
Cloaked in shadows

Stopping to regain my breath
I quickly glance below
It is a long way down
Yet looking up again
Quite a far bit to go

One hesitant step
Stair after stair
Stone upon stone
Spiraling higher
Suspended in shadow

Cold stone surrounds
Entombs me
Still I continue upward
Rising from the pit
Seeking the sky

Suddenly emerging
Bells ringing overhead
Sun brilliantly shining
Clouds billowing
Glorious light

Gazing at the splendor
Transcendent vision
Released from earth
At journey's end
Beatific delight

"The MOT"

(Composed in reflection
on November 16, 2009).

I went to the Museum of Tolerance the other day.
Car inspections, baggage searching, metal detectors,
Like entering a neutral zone in hostile territory.
After waiting for our guide, we were led down
The spiral ramp, descending into the pit.

Entering the exhibit, we followed the dim light,
Viewing pictures, observing the flickering footage.
Slowly we made our way past a café scene,
The rugged ruins of a dilapidated ghetto,
Through the barbed wire gates of Auschwitz.

Images of dying babes flashed across the screen,
Stories of the worst types of cruelty imaginable.
On the cold concrete we sat, silently sobbing
Beneath the wailing melody of a Hebrew lamentation,
The innocents slain for their star.

Sliding my card into the machine,
My eyes riveted on the printer.
‘Please let her live,’ I pray.
The paper glides into my hand:
Freda Gabe was never seen again.

Eyes glistening, our feet shuffle into the elevator.
Slowly we rise, flight upon flight.
A little man with a thick Greek accent,
Body scarred and arm tattooed,
Addresses the eager gathering.

He shares his story, the horrors endured,
The loss of his entire family before his very eyes,
But his fighting spirit shines through in his grin,
Although struck down, he survived.
Though tortured, Albert lived.