by Ken Sehested
There was a time when your provision was like
a splendid feast,
a delicacy for the eye,
a delight to the palate,
an aroma so fine it buckled my knees.
But no more.
The thrill is gone.
The aroma gags.
I’ve had my fill of this swill.
Bitter the word, broken the promise, that once
thrilled and fulfilled and instilled life with flavor.
What went wrong? I have not gone carousing
with the merchants of squalor.
The mark of your Name, once a source of joy,
now brands with scorn.
The weight of your hand, once a source of comfort,
now drags like a ball and chain.
My pain reeks, unceasing.
My wounds throb, relentless.
Your promise taunts
like a desert mirage.
Your river of sustenance
is swallowed in dust.
Oh, foofaraw! says the Beloved.
Get over yourself! Your lips are flapping
But your tongue’s lost its nerve.
Turn and face me, if you dare not despair.
For the love of Christ, get a grip on your gripes.
Inspired by Jeremiah 15:16–19. Reprinted from In the Land of the Willing: Litanies, Prayers, Poems, and Benedictions.
©Ken Sehested @ prayerandpolitiks.org