Cruel Time

Who am I to ask God for favors’?
When the aging are made living skeletons in human flesh,
and sit in ‘Care Homes’
lined up like the condemned before a firing squad.
How can I pray,
‘not me please, let me escape’?

Where did this deep-seated ego come from,
that pretends that I matter more
than a fellow human being?

Is mercy only for the “Born Again”?
I hear a million prayers to an idol god,
chained to a tapestry of self-love,
where acres of harvest
spill out on illusions fields.

I am at the crossroads
where the Evangelist and the disciple
fire words of hate at each other,
and amazed hearts
cry out angrily to God.

“I am of Paul” “I am of Apollos”
No, I am of the road,
I draw a deep breath;
listen to the cry from a Roman Gibbet
forsaken in cruel time,
and,
walk on…………

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