From behind the page their cries
muffled by millennia
seep through
Where, we ask, is God?
There swaddled tight
smuggled out into the wilderness
What good, we ask, is a God
who bleeds when the sword
lays open a mother’s heart?
What use dreams
against the pre-dawn invasion
of the fever-soaked tyranny of grief?
But the child is calling
again from behind the page
which turns and turns
searching not for the God-with-us
but like a lost and wailing lamb
for a way to make peace with God
over the water 