prayers

Dear Lord,
The I Am.  That one.
You and your spectral masterpieces
framed as angels-in-waiting,
your Gabriels and the wretched light
that swallowed Job’s children,
and Egypt’s babies.
You, of the gracious genocides,
and loving massacres,
you,
of the ancient tidal waves
and rainbow frights.
I beg you for mercy
only because I know what
you are capable of:
you make the walls
fall down.
You created the heavens
and the earth.
Cancer and
Wormwood,
nightmares,
and stillbirths,
boiling alive,
and apathetic parishioners
are yours.
How will we ever save ourselves
from your salvation?
Amen.