Monday, December 6, 2010

John’s question



This is my home, my cell.

I am used to deprivation.

Sleeping among the rocks

by the river with the scorpions

and spiders in mid-winter

was hardly a suite in the palace.

No, it is not the discomfort.

Nor is it the constant threat that weighs

so heavily upon my chest

as if death itself were a thing to be feared.

I miss the sky, and the sun

that daily dissects it; and the wind

and the rain upon my cheeks.

Here, in my cell I hear only distantly

the calls of the birds,

and the occasional scurrying rat

is a poor substitute for the joy

of the darting lizard. Yes, I miss all these;

but I close my eyes and I feel myself

free again, with the voice of Yahweh

echoing once more through the valley

and inside my head.


My followers risk their own freedom

to bring me word of another,

the teacher from Galilee;

he who came to me that day

at the river. They repeat his stories,

and I feel the glow of hopefulness renewed,

this sad beauty that aches deep within.

I crave freedom.

My yearning is made more deep

and more painful

by the thought that the divine Spirit

may have begun a long-awaited work;

and I, John, called the Baptiser,

constrained by these bars and chains,

am unable to take part

in the new thing that God is doing.


© 2010 Ken Rookes

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