Slowly, they crawl out of the bomb shelter,
Walk around the church to the back.
They look around at their city in ruins,
Blood in the streets and bodies in stacks.
Behind the church, the earth is disturbed.
Fresh dirt covers bodies thrown in a heap.
Quickly they all find shovels and begin to dig,
Praying for pieces of loved ones to keep.
This time-honored horror we know as war,
Is the way grown me settle disputes.
The old men send the young ones to die
In wars of poisonous fruit.
And the rest of us sit by and silently weep,
Mourning the loss of those we watch die.
Helpless to know what we should do,
So we bear silent witness and cry.
I wonder if wars would be done differently
If the old men had to carry guns?
I wonder how battles might change
With the power in the hands of their sons?
Would the young then exploit the old
Despite knowing they are afraid?
Or would it bring a new forbearance
To all discussions in which war is weighed?
These questions do not hold much hope,
Knowing mankind is irreparably flawed.
But then, life is full of hopes impossible,
Impossible, that is, but for God.
And so we need to keep praying
Even when the odds are not on our side.
For what were the odds of resurrection
When Christ hung on the cross and died?
© Linda Troxell