Plague— A Poem

Plague— A Poem March 24, 2020

(a painting by Goya)


‘Bring out your dead’
The old man said,
As another soul
Bit the dust.

‘Even the best,
And all the rest
Can be felled’
And the old man cussed.

‘Do not go gentle
Into that dark night’
And he spit
At the bothersome blight.

But the physician said
‘Turn the curse to a cure
Test and make sure
For those confined to a sick bed.’

The doomsday seer
With his gaze so severe
insisted —
‘it’s the judgments of almighty God’

But if that is so,
Why has the blow,
Not struck just the wicked– how odd?

The theologian said
‘Somewhere I read,
That God’s not found in the fire.
But in the still small voice
You can learn his choice
And discern the divine desire.’

Whatever the source,
Whatever the reason
The time of Lent
Is the proper season,

For us all to repent
And turn back to the Lord.
Rather than greedily hoard,

It’s time to be giving,
So others keep living,
This is our call and reward.

BW3 March 24th 2020

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