Upon the ramp, we stand like Solomon,
And point to this or that upon a whim
And judge who must be out or might be in
With baseless measure of aught you have done,
And fathers wail and mothers mourn a son
And still, unbending hearts look to your skin,
And eyes recoil, offended by your limbs,
Unsightly bones protruding from each one.
As lightning lights the storm to make rain run,
To weep like tears dripped from an angels chin,
So thunder fills your fear cup to the brim,
To weep fresh tears for aught once had now gone;
Solomon says:
*"To make the rivers stop,
**** not their mouths, but nurture each rain drop."