The Song of Gilboa

 

The dew has fallen on the grass like tears.

The early mourning sun has touched the sky.

And far above, that promontory high,

Gilboa, rises from the misty years.

The shrike of arms, the shattering of spears

are memories the wind bears in its sigh.

The place for kings and warriors to die

is groaning, weary, of war, and death, and fears.

There’s something ancient, older than the stone

that breathes past rocks and seems almost to sing.

A plea, a prayer that someday here would ring

a song of peace established as a throne,

and decked in purple irises like spring,

the mount of war rejoice before its King.

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s