The Bishop and the Butterfly: Murder, Politics, and the End of the Jazz Age

    God's work

    By Ripper on Sun, 08/23/2009 - 9:22pm |
    Where goes God when weakness steals
    into bones and blood and sinews of mortal flesh
    made less than whole by time and chance
    or broken steps in twisted ladders?

    Has the Unknowable taken leave
    to care for His children only from afar
    where all-seeing eyes may shut out pain
    and all-powerful hands rest indifferently?

    Within these unshed coils of desperate grief,
    the loaded dice, fate-hurled and snake-eyed,
    sink fangs at will in day on day until
    life's sweetness is but aftertaste.

    If God if off today, who but Samaritans
    remain to bind up wounds and turn
    compassion's gaze and hand
    to curing kin and countryman?

    A little lower than angels are we,
    born to share one cup of health
    and sickness until we drink no more.
    Yet angels each and all must be.

    Come, brother, let us carry your burden.
    Come, sister, let us cool your brow.
    Come father, mother, son and daughter,
    God has given us charge to heal you now.