By L.J. Bosela
Set me free, let me run
My heart stops its’ beat
In this hour of my death
Save me, Lord, take me home.
Clutch my beads, shout a prayer
My fate is sealed like a tomb.Close my eyes, see the cross
A priest offering up the Sacrament,
We are the hallowed flesh
Given up by those we do not see
An easy, near-forgotten sacrifice
To the masters of our war.
Our blood is naught but
A cheap, unconsecrated libation.
And now the crimson earth is
Drunk with blood of the nations.Out beyond my trench-
A fitting grave for this mass of men-
The maze of wire twists
Into crowns of metal thorns
Waiting for our last breath
For the stopped heart to say
“It is finished, yet again.”And I look up, and I see above
A scarlet sky turned to black.
I fall on my knees among the dead,
To call upon the God of the living
Ask him to end the quaking,
The tattered breath left me.
I’m ready for the thorns,
For the bullet-piercing of my side,
My warm blood poured out
For others to be free, or so
The master of war declares.
Then comes the whistling promise
And I know my dark hour is done.
“My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
About the Author: L.J. Bosela
L.J. Bosela was raised in Sterling on the Kenai Peninsula. She writes mostly fiction, with a special interest in fantasy in the style of Tolkien, Lewis, and McKillip. Outside of writing, she also enjoys reading, drinking tea, listening to classical and folk music, and spending time walking through woods, bookstores, and antique shops.