Feminine 101

Three hundred fifty-eight,

Recorded in red, not black. 

I know I ought not be counting

That I shouldn’t be keeping track.

But that old wound still smarts

Is laden heavy on my back.

.

Rest You promised long ago,

When you led this ragged band

To Canaan’s teeming shores.

Serenity You demand

Of a people wandering wearied,

Burdened by sin’s cruel brand.

.

To the land itself a sabbath,

Holy respite You prescribed.

Fields lay fallow year seventh,

For function and to guide.

For healing’s sake we slumber,

To be restored and revived. 

.

Seven times seven years,

To the debtor you declare

Freedom, rest, a new beginning.

Every shackle, load, and care

You decree the creditor

Shall nevermore remember.

.

Indeed it was no accident

Our Champion cited, not seven

Or even forty-nine.

Defined that emissary of heaven

Orders of magnitude more 

Pardon for our brethren.

.

And why must I not tally

That growing record of wrong?

Despise not our deliverance.

No more to slavers we belong.

But dancing, shouting jubilee,

With that emancipated throng.

.

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