Lament

A poem

I carry
my nation’s sins
like a millstone
about my neck

A litany echoes round my head:

We confess
that we have sinned against You
in thought, word, and deed,
by what we have done,
and by what we have left undone.
We have not loved You
with our whole heart;
we have not loved our neighbor
as ourselves.

I walk about each day
in sackcloth and ashes
to see Your peaceful name
painted in blood
like a banner of war.

Why do wicked men
keep getting away with murder?

And why
do we let them?

I feel like I should
be shouting in the streets every day
like some wild prophet.
Instead I’m standing
in the grocery line
looking at the latest horror
on my phone.

Who will save us
from this body politic of death?