King David’s bard once sang about
ceaseless cycles of the tides,
a time to hope and time for doubt
as we the cresting waves must ride.

Once trusted boatsmen stopped to ford
the deep oceans that divide
and swung their oars in wrath’s discord
to scorch with flames of pride:

I walked across an iron bridge
that had once been made a wall.
Not so far back was it the edge
of two worlds to rivals called.

The warhawks of those bitter days
that swung hard over seas of steel
returned to their unspoiled state
of ivory doves whose touch can heal.

Some doves now blacken in their dirge,
their talons whetted for the **** —
it’s worth recalling when this bridge
its joining purpose re-fulfilled.

Fell waves will crest and seas will smooth,
our tossed ark will come to rest
upon a place where psalms will soothe
us where we by doves are blessed.