28 October 2008


Job lay his hand upon the lamb’s
head, familiarity with this
sacrifice not dulling the sobriety
of his face. This life spilt for
his offspring’s seven days of sin,
if indeed they’d sinned.
And the crimson melded with the altar.

Job’s servants came a’runnin’
yelling of the gory raid, and the slave
did report the death of all
the sons.
Job’s knees did bend,
crackling with age, as he fell.
His crimson, beating heart did cease
for half a beat, the breath
of a young man left him
for a breath of humid, choked weeping.
The dust around his prostrate body
turned grey with sorrow, acting
as the humble veil of man’s dishonor.
Shook, Job’s hands, with anguish,
as he tore his robes.
The knife was still embedded in the sacrifice.

“Then Job arose…and worshiped” (Job 1:20)

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