Fighting an Old Normal
Weeping with yesterday’s headlines,
choked by tomorrow’s futility,
the Creator paints with colour,
brushing all with worth and dignity.
In His image all were created,
diversity weaved in the womb,
yet man despised the King’s creativity,
by colour, we condemn and consume.
Crowning self with sovereignty,
caging culture into chains,
enslaving ‘the other’ with supremacy,
to enforce a monotone reign.
Flamed by fists and fire,
hued cities are bleeding red,
young voices fight an old normal
—demanding justice for the dead.
I see guns aimed at young children,
protesting on daddy’s shoulders,
imagine a childhood where you got shot
because you asked for your life to matter.
Even before social distancing,
closeness to colour was a threat,
how many more must die,
before we wake up to our debt?
Their names haunt my conscience,
their unarmed words are gentle pleas:
“Please, don’t let me die.”
“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.”
Lord, show me my sin and error,
rebuke my ways of silence,
use me as your messenger of peace,
to bring calm to senseless violence.
But when my words are not enough,
to lift the darkness and decay,
Spirit intercede with wordless groans,
Lord, teach me your will, your way.
How I long for the promised Day,
when all will gather before the throne,
when exiles from every tribe and colour,
will finally feel safe at home.
A poem written in reflection of Black Lives.
Feature photo by Marcus Dall on Unsplash.
