Cain's Lament

January 4, 2013

Master, will you not take from my hand

 The fruit of my labor?

Here, with all my reach

I hold it up to you.

Take it.

Is it bitter?

 It is all I can do

For the ground is hard;

 My back…the field breaks it

With its furrow-teeth.

It is all I can do.

Take it.

I hold it up to you-

 This small seed, my very soul.

Is it dry- mere dust to you?

 For you know there is no rain.

And I have no water within me;

My blood is rust.

Will you not take it?

It is all I can do.

Let the ground cry my name,

For I have fought it.

I have…day upon days…

Torn from its side the stubborn

Roots of thorn and thistle.

And these scars on my face…

Do they not testify

This is all I can do?

Take it.

And there stands my brother-

His offering accepted.

And I saw you touch him

When he held up to you

The fat of the lamb.

You took it.

He has done so little, master.

Is this right that he live beyond

The law?

Is he not bound, like me,

To this ground?

This world, that lies heavy in my lungs,

My brother escapes somehow.

But this lamb…this lamb you gave him…

Will not escape my brother’s knife.

And you are pleased?

Was the lamb not born in your own stables,

Fed in your own fields,

Washed in your own river?

This gift you give yourself…

Why credit my brother?

Here…here I hold up to you…

With my full length extended…

All that I can do.

And you will not

Take it.

Master, do not look for me today.

I have gone to water the field,

 For I hear it crying…

It is forever crying…

For my father’s blood.