Hymn Four (Unsung)

Rarely, I shake a spear or rattle a honed saber. I
have yet to trench the moat around my suburban home
or throw up bastions in bricks.
My patience stretches long like prairie skies.
I have turned 490 cheeks, chosen not to lob stones,
though bones do break from sticks

and words can still cut deep and crush. In the dark street
my neighbors rumble and boom, clatter and yell.
Morning looms—
no respectful cut-off for them. They hate me
as themselves, uncaring, violent. I know full well
my ire is brimming. I fume.

I wish for Your sudden wrath most nights—
one single sizzling death bolt firing down
from a cloudless
sky. Their house in ruins. All noise stopped. A sight
like a just holocaust in a quiet Kansas town.In those moments, give me sense.

Michael P. Carriger