The woman–
she had seven sons.

SEVEN sons.

Last killed.
First tortured.
7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2,
though there was wicked testing
of her strength and will,
she lost them all,
down to the youngest one.

All knew
they paid
for their own sins,
but not against
their killing torturing king.

For the way of God
right then they stood,
encouraged and supported,
by their proud
and grieving mum.
(though in one’s desperate
and frightened mind
were her words somewhat contorted)

What if I were
not just the one who sinned
and stood for right,
through death and torture,
but also their fruitful, strong,
unshaking mother,
and even, too
the vile, offending king
who struck and struck
and struck them down,
a worldly and cruel overlorder,

Of me, what then?
Of this, it may be best
I do not fret,
for each minute more, and day,
a fresh opening and chance I get,
myself along my path
aright to set,

Though, perhaps, to boot,
I’ll have the proper opportunities
and various employs
and qualities of me
to vet.

And, since I get to lay the table,
it may as well be simply me
upon whom
I place
with confidence
my every bet.

This entry was posted in Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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