Monday, March 10, 2014

239/139 (Lenten Poem # 2)

How does a plane disappear, two hundred thirty-nine souls,
Soaring over oceans and cities, plugged into networks
And towers and the best of Boeing and Microsoft and Apple?
Where does a plane go?  Where does its precious crew 
Of engineers and flight attendants, 
Vacationing couples and tiny infants,
Go when a plane so marvelous is no more?

If your eye is on the sparrow, is your eye also
On the plane so high, flying at super speed
Over Malaysia and Vietnam and warm vast oceans?
Does it follow the catastrophic fall, the 
Unimaginable hijacking, the awful 
Trajectory of fear and loss and nothing to be done?

Could it really be that every hair on every head
Is counted, named, beloved, cherished
In your tender heart?  Could it be that every cry
on every falling plane is your lament,
Your shriek of abandonment and grief?

These questions hurt today, and their answers
Seem flimsy and cheap.  How they weep
These friends, lovers, families on the tv!
Not knowing.  Not knowing where.  Not knowing how.

If I ascend to heaven, said the broken believer,
You are there; and if I make my bed in Sheol,
You are there.
If I take the wings of the morning, said the sad one,
And settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
Even there your hand shall lead me,
And your right hand shall hold me fast.

Hold them fast, O Lover, O Grace, O God.
Hold them fast and bring peace to their souls.