Weeping May Endure

Weeping may endure for a night,
yet night seems millennia.
Distress and dissonance, the crimson
flow and torrent of freight,
like a siege, assaults the heart and mind,
from judges and magistrates,
drunk with shrewdness, dancing in the dark,
to slay mercy and kill the kind.
The cries, the yearnings, like sound and fury,
a tale of slim and meager significance
to a world infatuated with the celeb du jour
and deaf to all but a consecrated jury.
For joy to come at morning’s fresh light
and reign be given to justice,
for ashes to turn to breath and bones
and meekness to holy might,
the ransom paid must exalted be,
and mercy poured from heaven,
from the sides of the north to planet earth
must come the crown of victory.
Yet not on wings of wrath and ire
will morning see its pleasure,
but in the turning of heart and soul
to the crucible’s righteous fire.