After 1 Samuel 24

His beard tightly curled, black locks in ringlets,
Saul’s regal forehead slumbers on bedrock
at the mouth of a shepherd’s desert cave
like an altar-bound lamb set for sacrifice,

his eyes naïve, closed calmly in darkness,
blind to the dagger before his bared throat;
all Time and Justice balanced on this blade
from which a sole strike might rewrite Reality.

Out of grim shadows glare blood-greedy stares
of rival factions, fellow sons of Abraham,
David’s men, the yellow glow from their eyes
emerging like wolves from deep in this cleft.

This is their den, their haven from hardship,
a sanctuary wherein this enemy has entered
for sabbath, unaware of their presence,
his faith misplaced like a Philistine king.

“He’s already dead in his sin,” they preach,
“Why not use the knife?” confusing events
that favor their schemes with the will of God,
citing a prophet as though a wyrd sister’s word,

but then David speaks, the man after God’s own heart:
“The same oil that baptized his brow wet mine
to anoint us both chosen by the Divine,
the crown promised me not negating his,

“so let us sheathe our swords and show mercy,
not forcing to term what we trust Heaven will birth;
Saul still playing a part in this drama,
free to find his own end, his death-stroke not ours” –

and my soul turns to this scripture tonight
when I watch pastors debate how to cull
people and churches from their flock, damning
folk for a faith they adjudge less true than their own;

a human hunger for holy kingdoms
goading ordained men to carve horrors in God’s name.

You can hear a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by Ksenia Kudelkina on Unsplash