Letter: Prayer in a time of plague

It is snowing slantwise from the north,

On the black winged eaters of the dead,

Who fly on unflexed winds over my farm,

Over the empty sideroads,

And the nearly barricaded homes.

Have we angered you, oh God of soil and wind?

God of weather, thunder and flowing water,

Have you had your fill of us?

It was your command to be fruitful and multiply,

Did we push it too far?

Was flood too extreme, too undiscerning?

So you have fallen back on pestilence and plague.

Are You, oh Mighty God, disgusted with our pride?

Offended by your might?

Has this new many towered Babel, sickened you?

Have many of us lived too long?

Forgive me, Lord, my many sins I now repent,

I see no reason to confess, to one who knows me so,

Who felt me turn within the womb, and saw me walk

And grow, and till.

Let me, like Lot, leave this behind, here on my farm,

Spare me, oh God; my comrades, kine and kin.

Charlie Smith