Into the midst of
the bombed-out front
where once grew grain,
a voice wails, “judgment!”
and another echoes, “blood!”
and a third screams, “war!”
And those who know more of all three,
and perhaps too much,
turn again to the field,
put their hand on the plow,
and press on
with the long, hard work,
breathing “mercy”
over each step.
Long after
such voices have faltered
and fallen silent,
these will come rejoicing,
bearing the work of their hands,
the fruit of their lips,
and a glad heart.