Nancy L. Meek


He sees Him in their faces,
in their muddied weeping wounds,
in their blood soaking the ground…
his Jesus, tortured… all around.

He hears His anguished cries
gurgling up through swollen throats,
veins bulging from their urgent plea,
“God, why have you forsaken me?!”

He drops to his knees in the dirt,
his body contorted from the sobs,
hearing but dead silence from the sky,
as he watches Jesus, his Jesus… die.

He spies their calloused hands,
relieved of the heavy cross they bore
until they could not carry it anymore,
their human shells crushed by the war.

He bares his head and prays
a prayer that only Jesus hears;
then rifle-in-hand, he plods away
to see his Jesus… another day.