We promised Joshua that we would serve
the god who brought us to this land. Of course.
We took an oath and swore we wouldn’t swerve.
We’ve heard the stories all about the force
that crushed old cruel masters, blazed and towered
to shield us. We have the testimony here,
where Aaron’s sons keep watch. Our parents cowered
beside the mountain. Yahweh made it clear.
But they had manna every day, and quail,
through years of roaming to this destination.
Now rain’s been gone too long—our fields will fail—
and so we kneel on stone in desperation,
grasping, blistered lips pressed to a pole—
we might all starve if someone doesn’t bleed—
of course we know that Yahweh’s in control,
but what else can we do when we’re in need?
