It was not a quiet prayer.
When it came, it was
wrenched from him, in anger
or pain, possibly both, but
it was definitely a shout
not a whisper, was certainly
something directed at god,
certainly heartfelt and
demanding, absolutely sure
of its reasons and concerns.
It was not a quiet prayer,
it was a scream of grief
ripped out of the night,
pain from hearing the worst.
It was primal and personal,
a shout about being alone
and not knowing what to do,
a request for a compass,
a map and survival rations.
But mostly a demand for love.
It was not a quiet prayer
and it whispered its way
around the village, out
into the world. Elsewhere,
on their knees, others
were shocked at the raw
hurt, the need; took prayer
upon themselves, spent time
begging for mercy
and pleading for his soul.
It was not a quiet prayer,
it was prayer nourished
by dissolution and despair,
a loud eccentric mash-up
of energy and anger,
questions and desire,
despair spun loose
into the world to see
where it would go and
if anyone would answer.
[first published in Third Way]
Reblogged this on reubenwoolley.
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