Rachel Weeping

Not that I endure so very well. Angry poems are difficult to read and absorb, and I’ve written a few. The images for this poem come from the Biblical story of the Passover, our family time together with Ben before the lid on the coffin was closed and then the actual burial—the descent into the ground, which to my everlasting regret I can only imagine. In this poem, I equate the lid of the coffin with the doorpost in Exodus, upon which the children of Israel were to put the blood of the lamb and thus save their children alive. I am also interested in the ambiguity that exists between
Isaiah's concept and the Book of Mormon view of God’s outstretched hand. Bejamin's mother's hand reaches out in love, but what of God's? Does His hand reach out to strike us again and again or to save?

The poem recalls a bitter moment but not a lasting one. It’s necessary to acknowledge anger and resentment and offer the tumult to God. He can take it. He knows our true feelings anyway and only an honest soul may hope to experience the healing intimacies of the Spirit. No matter the trial, God will not accept hypocrisies. We cannot come to Him pretending that we feel anything other than what we truly feel.


Rachel Weeping___________________


Beneath a bloodless lintel
between the pristine post
his mother’s hand is outstretched
still and laid upon his ghost.

But at the closing of the door
love’s angel must passo’er.
And when the door is put to sod
ask of Almighty God:

Whose heart is harder still?