Joshua’s Lament

When will all beings be free?

When can I return to my brothers
and be greeted with open arms?
My soul dwells in this barren place
that once housed my heart.

These eyes are dry and tearless now
like the sand beneath my feet
and I have become an omen feared
my face a dark reflection of a man in chains.

The parched grass does not seed the earth
nor uproot itself and move with wind to verdant hills
just as I am bound in this anchored solitude
until the ear of Yaweh hears my cries.

Without hope, I am deprived of mercy
a hollow shell where once a rock stood
proud and fortunate. Alone, I am an empty wineskin
once full of the drink that warmed my dreams.

When will all beings be free?

They have silenced my tongue because
I spoke of peace and the end of tyranny.
Like an ill-fated child who speaks out of turn
they have dealt me vicious blows.

My cries are muffled by the wind that
moves the clouds in dark of night.
How long must I keep silent while my sisters
are raped and my brothers made to carry dung?

What am I to do? Eat locusts and wild honey
like the Baptist John and wait for my beheading?
Must I hide among the rocks and caves until my hair grows
white, my skin a dried brown prune to cast away?

How long, Lord, must I bear this sentence?
You are the One who stirred my heart to speak
of freedom from oppression, of justice for the poor
and now I preach to dried grass and lizards unaware.
When will all beings be free?

Am I to wander forever here without your solace
to never gaze into my children’s eyes? Or will you look again
upon me with your mercy and set the path before me,
carved through mountains with your word?

Will they rise without me, tear the structures from their beams,
raise the flag of freedom and sing ten thousand strong?
They will come to find me then rejoicing, but I will not be found,
my bones returned to dust in the caverns of the hills.

No, this cannot be my final destiny, to never know of peace,
to be like Moses never entering the promised land!
Find me a way Lord! Let me steal into the night by my brother’s side.
Make me swift of foot and strong of will again.

Return me to the land of the living, even if it costs my life,
for I am Joshua, your servant. You gave me a tongue for a sword
and I will never cease to wield its sting upon the wicked.
Find me a way, Lord and I will forever sing your praise!

Joanne Cucinello 2007

Lazarus, Come Forth

I originally posted this Narrative Poem in 2010 . . . recirculating for new readers.



He comes for me, my friend, my brother, but I am four days dead in this tomb.
The weeping of my sisters, their pleading and tears, has pulled him to this place
where my flesh already rots behind the stones. I can hear him weeping too.
Why does he weep? He promised me eternal life. Why does he weep, this God-man
when he said I will be with him in Paradise?
Can it be that Paradise is not enough to quench the thirst for human touch?
Can it be that this earth has become the desire of angels? That man himself has swallowed heaven and it is . . . no more?
I have not yet passed beyond the veil, even as the light called me to move on.
I have waited on my sisters' pleas to "stay until he comes." And now he comes, parched from the dust of his journey. He comes now, his sandals worn, his hair bleached by the sun and stands before the stones, his voice roaring like that day he commanded the waves to cease for Peter. Only once, he says it "Lazarus! . . . Come Forth!!"
and I feel his breath irradiate the stones that house me in. My whole being shakes with terror as my iced heart begins to warm and pump. . . My blood flows red again!
Oh . . . I hold my ears; you are no longer my friend, rousing me from my dark sleep, bringing me back to only die once more! Have you no pity? No mercy?
I rise . . . I am alive! I see my own hands move before my face in the dim light of this tomb. I rise . . . I walk again with shuffled feet out into the blinding sun. I reach for him and stumble. So many are there, crying with my sisters, but all I see is eyes . . . his eyes, and the hand that reaches out to me. Somehow he needs me, I know not why, but he still needs me.
The day would come and it did, when he, who raised me from the dead, would be nailed on a cross to die. And in his silent painful suffering, I would hear those words again. . . "Lazarus . . . Come Forth!" And I, the one he raised from death, would go to him with these hands that live again, and touch and hold his broken feet and look into his dying eyes and give to him my human touch. The Son of God . . . who rules the stars and all the heavens. . . no more to live in human flesh, no more to walk the earth or feel the wind blow through his hair. "Lazarus, Lazarus, one last touch before Paradise."

Joanne Cucinello 2007