we gaze longingly
over the horizon, hoping
to catch a glimpse of that hero
who (caped, weaponized, square-jawed)
will come to deal with
all our foes, vanquishing
one and all
but
if we would let you
touch our cataracted hearts,
we might just see you
take off royalty's
purple finery
and wrap a towel
around your waist;
turn your WMDs into
those harvesters
reaping food for
all the hungry;
leave your throne
to sit with us,
sharing the bread of grace
with those whose
dreams are strewn
like crumbs across
the floor of their hope.
so come,
Son of David,
come with mercy
for us,
for us,
mercy.
(c) 2009 Thom M. Shuman
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