Jeremiah

Curses of Foresight

At the precipice of hope, I sing a psalm.
Long rainfall, crawling, bowing down,
returning to prayers, with soothing balm.
But I am still Jeremiah.

Fool's pride and buyer’s remorse summons the flaming hand. 
Judgements fly from heavenly bow pulled back.
A messenger alights to celestial wind, lands upon the sand.
Yet I am still Jeremiah.

My prayers and supplications are heard.
Many tears, and bloody strokes of love,
Begin to reap lost souls’ heart, by sin lured,
Because I am still Jeremiah.

Jeremiah drinking the bubbling brooks.
A shattered visage in living waters.
Sheared hopes simmering, vivid troublesome looks.
He starts upon a psalm, but falters.

Jeremiah upon the fire.
Judgement of buckler and flashing steel
dance to the beat of the war drum’s ire.
Tongues of Pentecost make real the unreal.

Jeremiah sorrowing the fallen tree.
Roots unmoored reach for the vacuous vacant;
it has lost its footing, and thinks itself now free.
Christendom purified, now faded.

Jeremiah judging the torn earth.
Which hath seeds much planted,
though, many ungrown, lack mirth.
Yet those prayers sown, are not recanted.

Promises of the Ages beset the man, 
cursed to face his predictions foretold.
Words, unheeded, as much will unfold.
A staff foregone, a rod will finish this plan.