we mourn the lost.
death is a gaping wound that fifty years won't heal
this side of heaven.
time never warmed a bed or walked a daughter down the aisle.
innocence lost, too
and we mourn that. it may be the rose-colored glasses, but did we
love each other better then, before we knew how different we were?
{are we really all that different?}
civility lost. best selves exchanged
for caricatures, battle axes, and an unholy anger that divides
this grief is not a cry for war:
not the war of words domestic or the missiles dropped abroad.
there's many lost but tell me who has won?
bind up the brokenhearted
let us rebuild ancient ruins.
turn our mourning into gladness
that we might work for peace
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{with appreciation for the prophetic voices of U2 and isaiah}
