His blood flows through the land
like a red river in the sunset of our despair,
through the hills and the valleys
and the steel-ringed cities,
staining us with guilt and remorse rusty
as an old nail.
He climbed Mt Sinai — a darker Moses —
to deliver us from ancient bondages
and spoke with the wisdom of Christ
and walked faster than the wind.
Some listened. Some followed.
Some hid behind the neon signs
and the pruned hedges.
In the Gethsemane of black sorrow
he was the healer,
but we do not deserve our heroes.
We nailed him to the cross
in a final deceit
when the truth was too much to bear.
Crucified him,
then blanketed his body with tears
and in our agony kept vigil,
remembering the man,
remembering the dream.
Mary Engleberg