Some more poetry, this time a dramatic monologue

From East of Nineveh

There’s nothing for me, a broken prophet

To whom death appears much better than life.

Heading to Tarshish or a desert tomb

Is where I’d rather be, instead of spared

To see this city repentant and free.

Perish the thought that I should run from God

That I should try to flee Your sovereign gaze

I knew that You would never turn away

A penitent people, if they sought You

Away at sea You sent a violent gale

My stick came up short, they tossed me over,

And it would have all ended back then

Sinking into the depths, light growing dim

Until your mercy found me in the sea

When the leviathan swallowed me whole

For three days I lay there, as in a grave

In the reeking darkness, weeds, and bones

From the belly I began to suspect

That I might live on. I prayed and confessed

“Your hand is mighty to pull me away

From the errant paths, far outside Your will,”

But these Assyrians, though on their knees

Should drink the bitter cup they themselves brewed.

I’ll freely warn them if they’re to be damned

See why I turned west? I cannot bear it.

How could this great blackened bastion of hate

And violence, greed, lust, stinking things

Find a welcome heart and forgotten crimes.

They, heartless, who would skin me alive,

Men, women, and children alike have died

At the hands of these fell barbarians.

You were supposed to stay with my people

Remember the covenant that you gave?

You once brought we Hebrews out of Egypt

Into fertile lands of milk and honey.

We who offered up sacrifices, true

To you year after year, and kept every

Perfect statute You gave. Can You, in truth,

Compare our worth with those uncircumcised?

So you see why I am angry; I have

All the right to pity this shriveled vine,

Small but beautiful tower of green life,

That once protected me as I waited

Waited for your mighty hand of judgment.

Fire and brimstone would have done the job,

Or the sword of an avenging angel.

There’s nothing for me, a broken prophet

To whom death appears much better than life.

Heading to Tarshish or a desert tomb

Is where I’d rather be, instead of spared

To see this city repentant and free.

I care naught for this senseless deliverance.

Maybe in Sheol I will forget this mess.