31.1.16

Birds in Lament

Listen, I am broken on Sunday.

A host of eager young wings 
Thrash up 
into a sky 
on fire
except the sun turns to drown them
In a molten apocalypse
Scalding flight feathers
With the cruel revelation
That this melting mirage leaks off from
A great and terrible darkness.

Feathers flounder in the aftermath
a thousand frantic creatures 
fighting to fly 
but I think we forget 
which way was up
When we were offered as a burnt offering
To a fleeing sun. 


It seems as though our guardian angels
Can only sing their bravest ballads
From below the surface
In the hope that music permeates
A sky which even dawn cannot leak into:

"Be still, young heart
In the darkness
Your Redeemer lives 
(Job 19.25)

There is no splendor
In this prison, but hush
Your Father led us to this bitter dwelling.
(Lamentations 3.6)

We are broken by His hand, but
(Lamentations 5.13)

Wait for the Lord, neonate soul 
Wait continually 
for your God 
(Hosea 12.6)

Wingspan is weak 
with grief
Even the strongest chest
Cradles fear in his heart with a frantic lullaby
But here come the angels:

"At break of day
He will help his people
He will bring light
As surely as the dawn.
(Psalm 46.5)

His compassions yet
Are new
every morning.
Great is His faithfulness."
(Lamentations 3.22-23)

Emily Pacchioli, Birds in Lament


"To learn to lament is to see our own vision of transformation shattered on the rocks of the truth about the world's deep rupture and how we ourselves are a part of the brokenness." -- Emmanuel Katongole

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