peace, be still

A worried world won’t let the weary rest;
amid the clamorous din, beleaguered kneel,
begging for crumbs at the communal feast,
like hungry dogs scrounging for a meal,
and broken down, they long for sweet release,
balm of Gilead poured on beaten backs.

The rock at the base of the tree cries “Peace”,
rising up where voices fail, where words lack
comfort, power, hope, and stick to the roof
of mouths as dry as dust.  Words aren't enough
to offer more than cold and cruel reproof.
One voice penetrates through barrens; so tough
the act, effective to remove the curse.
Thirst is slaked by one
                                         who also said, “I thirst.”

Liz McFadzean