Paris ’24 – 17th April 2024

With just 100 days to go before the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games 2024 in Paris, it must be time for another blog post.

The 10K Final is scheduled for Friday, August 2nd 2024 at 9.20pm

Why mention this?

As I am running 5Ks at just over the 10K qualifying time of 27:28 I have a new aim…to run a 10K on August 2nd, the same day as those gazelles of the athletic world, go home, shower and then watch to see the elite storm home in less than 63 seconds per 400m laps.

if one aims at nothing, one is sure to succeed

Also, the 10K world record stands at 26:11 care of Uganda’s Joshua Cheptegei…that shall now be my aim for running Parkrun 5Ks. Not easy, my pb is about a minute slower than Joshua Cheptegei’s 10K record!

But if one aims at nothing, one is sure to succeed.

Today’s 5K on Bristol Downs, a gentle jog after cramp 6:17 per km, just over 30 mins for 5K, so there’s a way to go.

But with my new Brooke’s trainers and a following wind…who knows?

My aim - 26:11 for 5K

The Case for renaming Easter Saturday

Easter Saturday needs a facelift. It’s the forgotten day. The quiet day between Good Friday, a holiday for many, and Easter Sunday.

If we look past Good Friday, Easter eggs, egg hunts, and the like, we know what is there: the crucifixion of the Messiah, Jesus, and on Easter Sunday, an empty tomb and the appearances of the resurrected Jesus, first as a gardener to Mary Magdalene, then to his disciples, and then to the two disciples on their forlorn, hope-shattered walk, to Emmaus.

My story is that I abandoned the agnosticism of my teenage years for faith in Christ. For me, the moment of belief was a moment, an instant of time, as I intoned the Creed ‘I believe in God…’ which, up until that point I had stopped repeating as I did not believe. But my arguments against Christianity had been eroded over a period of a year or two having carefully considered the compelling evidence supporting the historicity of the New Testament and for the resurrection.

I had accepted that Jesus was a true historical figure and that the New Testament was a reliable document and was certain that the disciples were eyewitnesses to Jesus’ crucifixion and were convinced that He had risen from the dead. But there is still an immense gulf between believing historical facts and making a personal commitment to follow Christ.

As a young child, I was always struck by the simplicity of Jesus’ invitation to the disciples: ‘Come, follow Me. And they left their nets and followed Him’. Now, I was faced with the same choice.

As I said those words ‘I believe…’ I found to my astonishment that I did.

On Easter Sundays, I am reminded that Jesus overcame death, as He said He would, appeared to His disbelieving disciples, and ate fish to prove that He wasn’t a ghost, or a figment of their imagination. That they took some convincing was further evidence to me that the New Testament was an honest account of the events of that day. None of the apostles are shown in a flattering light; they all abandoned Him when He was arrested, and none believed in the resurrection without a fight!

But all this leaves Easter Saturday.

The Jewish day starts and finishes at sunset, so to be true to the New Testament, Jesus died at 3pm on Good Friday, and His body was placed in the tomb in the evening. The Sabbath, Saturday, started at sunset and lasted through to the following sunset. On Sunday, just after dawn, on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other women went to the tomb and found it empty, followed by Peter and John. Jesus then appeared to the women, the men, and the two disciples on the road to Emmaus. The third day.

None of the apostles are shown in a flattering light; they all abandoned Him when He was arrested, and none believed in the resurrection without a fight!

What happened on the Sabbath? Was Jesus ‘asleep’?

When I said the Creed, there was one line that mystified me:

was crucified, died and was buried;
he descended into hell;
on the third day he rose again from the dead;

Descended into hell? Really? What does this mean? Is there any evidence in the New Testament to support this? How was this phrase included in the Creed? Why do various more modern versions either delete this sentence or retranslate it as ‘descended to the dead’? Is this descent referring to Good Friday i.e. experienced by Jesus on the cross as part of His suffering, or after His death and before His resurrection – i.e. during the Saturday? Questions. Questions.

There are interpretations aplenty. Look at the following article for a detailed biblical analysis  (e.g. 102-04_303.pdf (biblicalstudies.org.uk) )

One of the issues for us is the use of metaphor and spiritual language alongside the more familiar vocabulary of our three-dimensional material world. Good Friday and, to some extent, Easter Sunday, can be analysed ‘materially’, on Friday Jesus was crucified, died, and was buried. On Sunday, he appeared albeit differently, but physically to the disciples. For Easter Saturday, however, the normal material tools at our disposal, are of no use. The body is in the tomb, hidden from view – the New Testament clearly states that Jesus rose on the third day, that is after sunset on the Sabbath, Saturday, and before dawn on Sunday.

For the materialist, then, relevant questions about ‘descending into hell’ include what is meant by the term ‘hell’, where is it located, and when exactly did Jesus descend there?

Spiritual thinkers, on the other hand, look beyond the physical events e.g. the arrest, the nails, the blood, the death, and the physical suffering, to consider the significance of the sacrifice of the Lamb of God in heavenly realms.

·        Material interpretation – ‘hell’ refers to the realm of the dead i.e. Sheol in Hebrew or Hades in Greek rather than Gehenna – the place of judgement and fire. This explains why many modern versions of the Apostles’ Creed replace the rather ambiguous word ‘hell’ with ‘the dead’.

·        Spiritual interpretation – the spiritual agonies Jesus suffered on the cross were as real as the physical. When He cried out ‘My God! My God! Why have you forsaken/abandoned me?’ He suffered the ultimate darkness of separation from His heavenly Father, taking our sins upon Himself, and descending into hell, for us.

So…if called upon to recite the Apostles’ Creed, I can still repeat ‘he descended into hell’. Had he not descended into hell, He would have avoided taking upon Himself the fulness of the spiritual suffering in the human race, infected, as we all are, with sin, so that we may be forgiven. And there is a more profound truth to be found in the crucifixion, we are included and taken into the death of Christ as Paul states ‘I have been crucified with Christ, it is no longer I who live but Christ who lives within me. The life I now live in the flesh, I live by the faith of the Son of God who loved me and gave Himself for me’. Christ not only took our sins so that we could be forgiven, but took us on the cross, so we could be delivered and made into new creations, replicas of Christ.

I believe in God, the Father Almighty…

In doing so, He opened up the way for God to raise us up, just as God raised Jesus from the dead. Not something we can achieve by ourselves, by any ‘religious’ or moral efforts of our own.

Two criminals were crucified with Jesus, on either side. Initially they both ‘reviled Him’ but the thief later changed his tune and said to Jesus: ‘Lord, remember me when You come into Your kingdom’ And Jesus said to him, ‘Truly I say to you, today you will be with Me in paradise’. The destiny of the other criminal is less certain. Like with the early disciples, Jesus says ‘Come, follow Me’. It will never become more complicated than this. Leave everything and follow Him.

Physically Jesus died and descended into hell (the place of the dead) but, spiritually, He turned hell into paradise (a beautiful garden) for Himself and the thief. Perhaps we should rename Easter Saturday ‘Paradise Saturday’?

I’ll leave the last word on this to St Paul:

‘Christ Jesus, who, being in the form of God…made Himself of no reputation…and being found in the appearance as a man, He humbled Himself and became obedient to death, even the death of the cross. Therefore God also has highly exalted Him and given Him the name above every name that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, of those in heaven, and of the earth, and under the earth, that every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father.’  Philippians 2 v 6-11

Book Review: Home by Marilynne Robinson

This may as well serve as a double review; Home is the sequel to Gilead and so the setting, a fictional small town in Iowa, Gilead, and the principal characters remain the same.

In Home, the outlier of family, Jack Boughton, returns to live with his aging father, the retired church pastor, Reverend Robert Boughton, and his younger sister, Gloria.

Whereas Gilead’s narrator is Reverend John Ames, a lifelong friend of Reverend Boughton, and revolves around a series of letters written to his godson, Jack Boughton, Home is written in the third person and the action takes place almost entirely within the four walls of the Boughton’s house.

In some ways, this is a re-telling of the parable of the prodigal son. Like Gilead, Home is steeped in scripture and faith-related issues. Jack as a wayward youth, often in trouble with the law, now returns, his battles with alcohol unresolved, as is his family life, and faith. Will he, like the prodigal of Luke’s gospel ‘come to his senses’ and return home in a deeper way than merely geographically?

But the impact of Home for me was one of extraordinary attention to the minute detail of moods, tensions, fear of precedents, hope and disappointments, and moral dilemmas that the author, Marilynne Robinson brings to bear in Home page after page.

It’s a slow burn. Its major emotion is sadness

There are no chapter divisions – it is one long dive into the tension between old Reverend Boughton and his son Jack as they co-exist with Gloria, under one roof. In one sense they are deeply united and tender with each other, and yet there is a constant struggle to close the gap between father and son.

It’s a slow burn. Its major emotion is sadness.

So, why read Home? Why not read a good detective novel where, even if the detective is gravely flawed, you know the crime will be solved? Or a spy novel full of action and courage? Home is a blues novel, left, largely, on persistently unresolved blues notes. It does contain courage but its examination of brokenness includes failure as well as degrees of success.

So, why read it? Because it is brilliantly written.

Leaving the Ninety-Nine

The Road to Emmaus – Luke 24.

It takes about 3 hours to walk from Jerusalem to Emmaus. If Cleopas and his friend, the two disciples, took an occasional break, maybe 4 hours might be nearer, but not much more than that.

If the day was ‘far spent’ by the time they and Jesus, who had appeared to them in some form of resurrection disguise it was about 7pm when they arrived in Emmaus.

After a short while at the table sharing food with Jesus, who promptly disappeared as they broke bread, they made their way back to Jerusalem, ‘they rose up that very hour’, arriving at the earliest by 9pm.

The precise location of Emmaus is unknown. Recent excavations at and near Abu-Gosh lend support for this site but there is also a Roman Catholic Franciscan church in Al-Qubeiba that celebrates Luke 24 each year. Evidence for this site is restricted to the remnants of Roman paving slabs.

The point of writing about Emmaus is that these two sites are located on the West Bank in what we often refer to as the Palestinian territories as distinct from Israel.

Gaza and the West Bank are where a diminishing number of Palestinian Christians live, their hope almost broken and shattered by a combination of poor economic conditions and persecution by hard-line fundamentalist Muslims, conditions which have forced many to emigrate.

The Palestinian Christian diaspora is part of the tragedy of the Middle East but…

…just as Jesus left the 120 in Jerusalem in search of the 2 on the road, thus literally acting out the ‘leaving the 99’ parable, neither can we, who have Christ dwelling in us, not be impelled to leave the relative comforts of where we are to search for those whose hopes, built up in Jesus maybe from childhood, have been torn to shreds by life’s events or the prevailing pressure of society.

We will find ourselves, just like Jesus, in some unlikely places, breaking bread with those whose faith and hope in Jesus has been all but broken, and yet leaving them with ‘hearts burning’ as we speak about Jesus the Messiah so that they too ‘rise up that very hour’, faith restored, hope restored and make their way, like Cleopas, to meet the resurrected Jesus.

Not a typical Friday

An alarm set for 6…ignored
Late now, stumbling, unshaven
Quick scrape with blade
Hot water on the face
Heart rate up, face the day

Walk through woods
Holding trousers up
Away from the mud
Bit sweaty reaching W-o-T
Early now, waiting for lift

Knocking mud from boots
Saying my prayers
Lift late, lift arrives
We speak, she with peppermint tea
I fumbling with mobile and rucksack

I’m unloaded
And find a Costa
Sup a flat white
Try not to get sticky fingers
Breakfast is a blueberry muffin

Was late, then early
Now waiting
Strange how unaccustomed to time
We clock people are
Perhaps more suited to eternity?

Have an hour to kill
Not listening to others’ talk
A man says have a nice day
Maybe too often and to strangers
Maybe waiting a lifetime for a nice day

We all shed clues
Our inner man
Incapable of hiding
A slight frown, or
Eyes full of music

That’s it…
I contend we are all
Musical instruments
Being played by a
Divine hand, different moods

Not a typical Friday
My time register and
Soul duly tuned, will it be
An atonal Shostakovich day
Discordant or…

An exultant symphony
Lifting us up, opening the heart
Believing one can…
At last…
Love one’s neighbour as oneself?

Extra

My friend Jon used to pass me
John, his torn open
Tube of extra strong mints
And I, worrying about halitosis
Would smile meekly
And prise from the flayed opening
The white disc of crumbling
Sinus-clearing mint

Unlike Polos
That can be sucked to
A nanometer before
Cracking on a warm tongue
Extrastrongs seem to demand
Less suck and more bite
It’s funny isn’t it
That everything is…itself?

Jon had no idea
But his simple act
Was duplicated in me
I, too, offer mints
To others, halitosis or not.
It’s really not much to do with mints
I can take them or leave themIt’s masculine and unspoken

Like grooming primates
It’s that fleeting eye contact
The physical extension of an arm
The lack of words
That communicates all that is needed
So…Jon and I would sit there
In church often, quietly crunching
Our bad-breath stoppers

Love one another
As I have loved you
Makes me wonder if Jesus
Had he been alive now
Would have bought Extrastrongs?
I think he did
I think he was disguised
As a Jon

The last teabag

All these reminders of the
Ends of things…
The last tea bag lying flat
On the bottom of its glass jar
Lonely and waiting
Finally chosen
Evoking more than a brew
A meditation no less:

Seized with enough grip
Not to tear, transferred
From one world to another,
And deluged with scalding water
Suffering it seems
Before the glory,
That inner golden glow,
Infuses, floods, and fills

Polyphenol pleasure…
Liberated molecules diffusing,
Their leaf-bound cages breached,
Swimming free with a purpose?
Maybe not understood,
But, flexing with the passions
Of sudden heat and colour

Find their way to rest
On a human tongue or,
Ascending an olfactory maze,
Millions of years in the making,
For a few minutes
Bearing their unique calling
Their mission fruit:
Stillness, sighing, smiling

Like the final teabag
Unchosen, unknowing of
Any purpose; this life
Boiling us one moment
Neglecting us another
Not here to be ghettoed
But as a diaspora, to be tasted,
To still the One who made us

Contrasts

Within the space of ten days
My body and I have
Trodden on a volcanic island
All pumice, leeched copper and
Bands of iron ore, glimmering
Under a furnace of summer sun

Only to write these words
To the drumming rhythm
Of random English rain
Anticipating a morning journey
To the Welsh valleys
And steep sheep-bleating hillsides

Neither divorced from the sea
Where time gazing at spindrift
Flung far from wave crests
Is time well spent
Or waiting until the evening
Moonglades are illuminated

With a light within which
No crime seems possible
Its almost hypnotic stillness
Falling gently, soaking the
Good earth with
Reminders of reflected glory

And yet…flying bombs tonight
Will find their targets
Drones caressed by moonbeams
Carrying their deathnotes,
Waspy, mosquito whining drones
Heard too late, or never seen

Yes, we deep-sigh for contrasts
For headlines re-written
From volcanic fire
To bucolic peace
From hostages held too long
To cries of freedom

Ten days?
Surely that’s enough time?

Allotment Wisdom - February

It was John, two plots down,
I first saw unfurling great sheets
Of black roll
Breathable black plastic
Pinned down to the ground
With bricks and old lead pipes

Late October one year
November the next, after which
John, like the ground beneath,
Hibernating only to emerge
In February to inspect the bricks
Lift the roll, and sniff the soil

It was a binary life
Covers on, winter withdrawal
Covers off, sow in Spring
But there was an unease
Suppression is not deliverance
Like fire beneath the foam

The weed-seed encased in
Overwintered soil
Undisturbed lies ready
To thrust - at night it seems -
To spoil the perfection of
What looked barren

Bert, one plot removed,
Leaning on his hoe
Smiling at John, that’s all,
Left his earth to breathe
The winter air and
The foxes to run

Visited once a week
After harvest, and
Fork in hand,
Upended any weeds
Roots and all
Left them to rot

Not here

Words folded inside
The grieving
It’s a form of muteness
Where anything said
Is said through blank eyes
Devoid of the person not here

The one whose absence
Is fuller, more immediate
Than before, woven tightly
Into the fabric of
An interior world, the
Location of one not here

Externals continue
Of shirts buttoned,
Laces tied, and shaving,
Kettle-steam, and duvets
But there is no memory
Only of the one not here

Silences punctured
Only by convulsions
Then exhausted sleep
On the floor, maybe
Waking only to comfort
Those comforting you

And then, only then
Does it lift, quietly…
You touch the dust on a mirror
See teabags left to mould
The neglect of days
Unnoticed

Letters, cards on the mat
Beyond the front door
Now opened…
An inrush of cool air
The sound of the city
Life invading

You tell the one not here
‘Stay or leave as you wish
And make me weep or smile
Or rant and blow like a bull’
Our communion is safe now,
Forever secure

The Watering Can

It’s January-blue-sky-cold,
There’s no equal
The high clouds, still,
The air, like the frozen water
Unmoving

A week ago it was different
A vicious storm downed
Dried out branches
Did its work, shaking
The loose things of this world

Oddly, though, it uprighted
A watering can, can in name only
Green plastic, heavy now
With the storm rains, standing
As if deliberately placed

On an aging pink, moss-encrusted
Paving slab, perfectly central,
Open to the sky
Unable to fill or empty itself
Subject to storms

Like us, storm-tossed
And yet only to set us
Open to the deluges
Pouring down from heaven
And the gardener

Deep calls unto deep

Occasionally rules are
Exposed as faulty vessels
To carry such living words
Whose light, incapable
Of conforming, created
To do the conforming:
Words unfolding life to us

Take a word out of context
To make a pretext
Can hold the laws of children
A highway code, as daily bread,
Poor bread though,
A railway-track-wisdom
But deep calls unto deep

Words from the underneath
Interior bass notes
That reverberate beyond
And meet the unvoiced
Calling of another
Distant in miles, or persuasion,
But closer than a brother
Yes, deep calls to deep

Carrying far beyond
The need for words
Into the mine shaft
Reaching not for dark coals
But all that is contained
In multi-tonal hearts

Full of love colours,
Under strain maybe, yet love:
Of grief, of unlikely dreams
Of prayers, of waiting, longings
Of rhyming and discord
Weeping with those who weep
Over our Jerusalems

Deep calling unto deep
Not without purpose
But a joint pulling together
To gather in the ropes that bind
Any two, not made with twine
Or flax, or jute, but cordless
Ropes from the deep

Sinking into Silence

It’s a rare thing, that
Deep silence
Filled to the brim
Beyond a lack of noise

Talking has ceased
Distractions powerless
To unsettle, to undo the spell
One thing remains

Thirty heads stilled,
Just the scratch of a pen
A nose blown, gently,
A sigh, but within a cocoon,

A coalescence, an
Unspoken agreement
‘Do not disturb’ signs
Invisibly worn

A corporate meditation
Subtracting nothing
From the gearbox to
The wheels

From the inner man
To the hands wrapped
Round a pen, a chisel
Or softened clay

After, like waking,
Thirty heads see
Their neighbours as if
They were never there

It wasn’t a dream
But escaping the trance
There’s only one word
Satisfaction.

After

Busy people chase the afternoon
The loquacious gabble, burdened
With afterthoughts
And jet designers place afterburners
Well…aft

But nothing much compares
With living for the after-life

Having a destination after ‘this’
In mind

Is it a world that’s been washed,
Tumbled dried, smelling fresh,
Ironed by a celestial being
All creases flattened,
All wrinkles stretched,
All tears wiped away?

Or is it like a snake shedding its skin
Or a metamorphosis
That longest of primary school words
The glistening caterpillar cocoon
Fastened on a stick in a jam jar
Is that what we are? Waiting?
A dim version of what is to come?

A primary school world
Waiting to be elevated
Away with shorts and on with trousers
No more chapped thighs
Lowered into hot baths
Red skin now replaced with the mud
Of rugby fields, of men and boys?

Let me tell you
It’s the fourth day
After Christmas
Since the angel on top of the tree
Winked
And reminded us of the
Heavenly hosts in good voice
Welsh maybe, or Italian?
Or from the four corners
Belting out

‘Glory to God in the Highest
And peace, goodwill towards men’

The afterglow of Christmas
When the afterlife
Discarded it’s afterness
And glory in the highest
Fastened itself
To the lowest,
The least,
The lost.

We Three Kings

Gold

Looking for a love
That’s looking solely for me
I am Melchior

Frankincense

Pursuing a star
Light, like scent, falling on me
Caspar is my name

Myrrh

Sorrow piercing me
Nails driven into place
Balthazar I am

The Other Story

Trailing behind the donkey
The ever-present
Memory of a botched divorce
Joseph’s fear and love
Dictating his untold strife

And Mary’s inability to hide
A young girl embarrassed by an angel
Nine months of overshadowing
Leaving no trace of bitterness
Peace dictating her every thought

Together now, they travel
Away from the knowing looks
Unaware of the star, or the
Angels from the realms of glory
Of heaven touching Earth

How unaware we are also
Carrying our own travails
As we must into the Messiah-feast
And yet this is why we put lights on the tree
Why we bust the budget

Why, broken like Joseph, perhaps
We gather. Like the angels
We cannot be contained
Love has broken out; a reminder
Of the other story:

Of myriads of tough angel warriors
On tiptoe, like children
Waiting, singing, singing, waiting for
The first cry of one baby the
Starting gun for a feast that will never end

Love Me Tender

The weather forecast a
Short sentence, a précis,
Summing up the struggles
Of the atmosphere as
‘Gentle rain will fall’
On the summer-baked soil
It will fall, until suppertime
Until the earth is softened
By the tender rain

At school, now
I am five, maybe six, and
On the art table lies a
Block of ice-cold plasticine,
A pleasant pink slab
Of resistance, looking at me
Too hard, so it thinks, but
Patience wins, fashioning
Long warm snakes

One day I may purchase
A kitchen tool,
With mountain range stipples
And bring my weighted swings
Down upon inert meat and
Those tight unyielding fibres…
What is this wooden mallet?
An enemy or a friend?
A tenderiser; that’s its name.

Stay Your hand, Lord
Stow Your word of
Hammering love divine
‘Case I end up pummelled,
Destined, like Your Son, to say
‘I have come to do Your will’
Oh God! Ignore my prayer
Listen not to my sunbaked
Ice-cold resistance

Here I am…
Raise your holy hand
Swing Your weight
Until I am fully done
Until I taste as I should
Until I take Your shape
Come like gentle rain
Defeat my sun-hardened
Soil. Love me tender.

Amen.

Paris ’24 – 23rd November 2023

Announcing a probable withdrawal from Paris ’24 Olympics.

The qualifying time for the 10K remains at 27:28.

The option to switch genders and aim for the 31:25 mark for women is…erm…a step toooo far.

My knee and hip injuries have seemingly settled down but surgery looms for the toe in the ‘run up’ to Paris and so what was impossible has now become medically impossible.

One’s aim now has to be adjusted, naturally, to the next Olympics - Los Angeles ‘28.

That stirs the half-American in me. Paris of course has a certain je ne sais quoi compared with the madness of west coast America and socially liberal Cal-i-forn-i-a. Genetically I may be closer to LA than Paris, but culturally? Nope.

Yesterday’s very gentle dawn return to 5K jogging around the Harbourside 5K took 33 minutes so the challenge is simple – I need to somehow induce my legs to twitch backwards and forwards at twice the rate, actually a tad more rapidly than twice as fast.

 Here goes.

Charlie Peach's Pumpkins and other stories

My review of Jenny Sanders' latest children’s book due to be published by Conrad Press coincides with her November blog tour.

 Following on from the highly entertaining and engaging The Magnificent Moustache and other stories is this excellent collection of six short stories that captures the same humour, pace, and tension as in Magnificent Moustache, and yet offers up another page-turner full of originality that will delight the younger reader.

 If you’re after one of those magic books that will keep adults amused and children enchanted Charlie Peach will be a good purchase.

 Jenny loves to poke fun, if gently, at the idiosyncrasies of the upper middle classes and their preoccupation with manners and convention. There are some wonderfully eccentric and stereotypical characters such as the alliterative Baxter, Bartholomew, and Belinda Beasley-Babbingtons, or my favourites: Candida Chumley-Smythe and Nora-Whittington Fay, or the distracted dentist Mr McCavity.

 Jenny has continued to introduce her young readers to a spattering of more complex and unexpected words such as tranquil, contingent, sommelier, or spouse, and humorous semi-invented words such as flusterment, muddlesome, or bazillion.

 Each of the six short stories in Charlie Peach contains unforgettable and imaginative scenes but, perhaps, none can surpass the resourcefulness of Shaun Scattergood as he adopts a French accent and acts the part of a sommelier serving up his absent grandfather’s ‘fine’ wines to such appreciative characters as Captain Radish and Lord Higginbottom.

 And…any children’s book that ends with a story about the Surprising Power of Cake is bound to do well.

The journey home – a lament

Like some troublesome
Subterranean bindweed
There’s one response: Out

Dig deep, uproot the
Damnéd growth ‘til its evil
Intent lies naked

For the world to gaze
Upon and weep at its own
Reflection and mourn

For an Eden lost
Our collective mind estranged
Will we journey home?

Gaza bruised, Hamas,
Unbearable to all your
People locked in pain

Jerusalem, drenched
With Messiah tears, your chicks
Still to be gathered