One year has passed since he was three
And he shall never grow again.
Three days from now with world shall see
Christ rise from death, for birth of men.
But I gave birth, as God would plan
To a boy who never shall be a man.
One year ago, his eye was bright,
His cheek soft as when he was born.
Men’s hearts were hard; his form was slight.
The rockets ripped; his flesh was torn.
They took what made me live and breathe
And left enough to gasp and seethe.
At Christmastime, this darkness came
When Mary bore a son to God.
Christ’s quiet, steady, pulsing flame
Was choked in blasts of war’s applaud.
The Virgin’s son rose from the dead
And so they kill our sons instead.
What hope is there this Easter time?
They say, “He died that we may live.”
May God forgive me for the crime
Of craving peace that death would give.
Better to die this very day
Than live each moment’s slow decay.
God, look upon this ravaged land,
Upon our children, crucified,
Upon the redness of the sand
On which you walked and lived and died.
Was Christ forsaken on the cross?
Are we forgotten in our loss?
My heart is weary long from grief.
My soul is bare of your protection.
My mind is losing its belief
Of hope in death and resurrection.
O God! My son was only three!
Why can he not arise for me?