O Lord, restore us to that garden—
we’ve forgotten the scent of roses.
That stain-glass mirror in our pockets
does nothing but expose us.
Rinse and repeat—the news cyclops,
its blind eye turned, tapering tears.
Catch and release—the news cyclone,
maelstrom of manufactured fears.
Opinion opposed, silenced in blood,
children blinded by bombshell,
alone, a weeping body thuds,
a playground doubles as a prison cell.
Workers, families, artists, soldiers,
since when have we become so lost?
The warmth is fading, now it feels colder,
a wealth of knowledge, and this is the cost.
“Stay informed,” they say, meaning well,
but I was better off none the wiser.
I wish I picked that life-filled fruit
over this self-aware appetizer.
O Lord, why such growing division,
if You promise that it is finished?
How can our Savior be risen
if death is still not diminished?
From Gethsemane to Sheol deep,
my body sinks and shudders,
until I leave that internet discourse
to hug my sisters and brothers.
Settle, O Lord, the minds of right and left
to draw them into Your arms and scars,
into heavenly peace, heavenly depth,
that garden restored to their hearts.
Loosen the weight the grieving carries,
for one day Death, too, will be crucified,
but for now, weeping at cemeteries,
let us mourn not what is alive.
And forgive the monsters, the makeshift martyrs,
for they, too, know not what they do.
In all their overflowing, cursed knowledge,
they have yet to grasp the truth.
