Rachel Weeping

From empty streets, wailing—
weeping is heard.
Rachel’s hot tears fall
on trembling hands.
In darkness she sits,
moaning, heaving, hurt.
A solitary cradle
stands in the shadowed corner.

“The King, the King,”
they scoffed in scorn—
Herod’s treacherous, brutal band.
In darkened rage they sought
One not long born,
a solitary boy
with tender little hands.

From terrified streets they came,
incensed—
Herod’s hungry, ruthless band—
leaving homes blood-drenched.
A solitary village—Ramah—
a shaken land.

The King, the King,
held in a strong and steady grip.
Mary’s hot tears fall
on trembling hands.
In darkness, mother and child flee—
moaning, heaving, afraid—
a solitary family
pressing toward a distant land.

From a skull-shaped hilltop, later,
weeping is heard.
The King’s own tears fall
from a wooden cross.
In darkness He hangs,
remembering, heaving, hurt—
Bethlehem’s solitary Savior,
with nail-pierced hands.

© Copyright 2012, Matthew R. St. John