by Ken Sehested
’Neath the canyons of vengeance
lies the valley of bones.
Many bones. Dry bones.
Bleached by remorse and hope’s demise.
Child of Eden’s failure and Noah’s fortune.
“Can these bones live?” asks the Lord of Hosts.
“Only you know,” say our doubt-tendered lips.
“Prophesy, you raggedy-ann human!” came the reply.
“Prophesy to the wind. Demand Heaven’s own Breath!”
Behold: comes the shaking, bone fit to bone.
Followed by sinews, knitting each to all.
“Say to these graves,
‘Your death grip has ended!
Your rancor, exhausted;
your redemption sure purchased.’”
Then finally the flesh, like a dress of pure glory!
“Stand erect, resurrected. For your land
is prepared to receive its plow;
your soil, its seed; your table, its bounty.”
The harvest of plenty awaits your delight.
Thus sayeth the Lord, flesh adoring;
bestowed by the Word, earth restoring.