Up Heaven's Slope

Wearily trod they up heaven's slope,
fatigued, in pain, forlorn
awaiting freedom desperately
that soon it might be born.

Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.

A moment's time in dark travail
mockingly Goliathan was the fight,
that even David who had stood so well
soon stumbled in the night.

Why was there no way
to bring them back home?
O'er hills and fields whence they came
while dreaming did they roam.

Marched back and forth, thin and wane
their figures stooped and grey,
next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.

Should there not have been
the one for whom faith
steadfast but rare,
that his would be enobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?

Who glimpsed the light but touched it not
whose spark had become so dim,
for them we say such a day,
Never Again! Never Again!

Under lash by day,
nocturnal storms did rage
Why did He not show them
a war He could have waged.

Yet reigned in death's kingdom
a way, a light, a day,
when dawn rising would those eyes see
of whom did faith sustain.

They lie on planks aside bodies
whose heat so little remain,
dreaded morning's welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.

The world we choose can point the way
down paths long sought by peace,
in whose gardens we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.

Alan D. Busch, copyright 2007