My Country, A Prayer

Although written nine years ago, this poem expresses the feelings of many readers today.The verses are simple, maybe even naive to the point of being simplistic. They are almost boringly long. The cadence of rhythm and rhyme is ironically singsong at times, repetitious, with no pretense at being serious poetry. But the thoughts,   (to be read as a prayer) express the concern and lament of many honest, down-to-earth, faith-filled, strong and stable readers.  Some of the stanzas have been previously published. Let me know if you like it—and if you don’t. 

 

My Country, 2017

My Country—
According to my TV news,
you are brutally  divided
by two extremist views.

Truth hides—
as takers taunt and bait
the givers on both sides,
the neutral—in confusion, wait.

Who can decipher left from right
in political fights for power and might?
Who seeks for tact, for verified facts?
Who speaks for reason?

Oh Lord, send us peace-makers,
not crass, cold haters.

And also, Lord,
I am quite confused by political ruse;
by tries to control;
by voices, interrupting—determined for their say,
hell-bent—intent to get their way.

Does it help to know
God comforts those who weep?
To remind ourselves that Jesus taught
to turn the other cheek
is a strength not for the weak.

Conflicts come and conflicts go.
Don’t you know your history?
Puritans once hung Mary Dyer
but couldn’t quench her holy fire.

The North and South,
both strong and brave—
sent men to die—
some fought for truth,
some died for lies.
God loved the men
on either side.

Somehow—our nation did survive,
to see the slaves set free.
Although the war continues on
for our inherent liberties—
and for our nation’s unity.

Oh men and women of America,
don’t be divisive;
don’t choose sides against each other,
not where sisters’ hearts entwine,
not where brothers still love brothers.

Oh, my Country—
I’m not blind.
I love your rolling hills,
your woodlands,
meadows, marshes, mountains,
your thunder storms, your gentle rains,
your winter’s cold and snow.
I’ve dug your rich black loam
and poor red clay—
I’ve planted seeds of hope—
to live beyond my living days. 

I see my land of kitchen-convenience,
my land of tweaks, flicks and twitter,
with bellies growing fat
on food that’s fast,
and pockets grown slim
on debt and whims.

I see—not cynically—but with despair
that turns my heart to prayer—
O my land of shopping malls
and football stadiums,
home of baseball, bubble gum and religious freedoms,
I care.

My Country—
under your red, white and blue
you’ve sent out missionaries
and the Marshall Plan,
always giving back
as God has given you—
as best you can—
and I’m grateful to be an American,
to live in the USA. 

Oh my Country—
Land of the free, home of the brave—
across our wide unsettled spaces,
with our customary daring speed,
with breakneck racehorse paces,
our frontiers keep on changing.
our policies rearranging
for the tired, homeless,
often hungry poor.*

 Oh my Country—
I’m getting old.
I can’t keep up with change.
A happy clover leaf,
once shamrock green,
now’s turned to asphalt gray.
My dictionary meaning’s grown
for words like gay and play;
and most of us have never known
a rest-filled Sabbath day.

My Country—
where lotteries inspire greed,
where little Johnnys still can’t read,
and hungry families wait in need—
can division ever guarantee
protection for our liberties? 

Lord, help us not to shut our ears
to humble truth,
like, “God is Love.”
Help us not, in pride, deny
that Jesus died forgiving sins. 

Teach us also to forgive—and humbly live.
May we rise up within and truly seek to be
citizens of integrity,
of faith and hope and honesty,
stewards of democracy.

May we trust in God in all we do.
May we live and die
to bring His kingdom down
to earthly ground. 

Oh, my Country—
turn to God and pray.
Someday—
violence will raise a final head.
One day, the final drop

of innocent blood be shed.

Who knows?
If we cried out,
would God relent?
Speak tenderly?
Might I live to see
loving-kindness win
against the world’s disruption,
against the consequence of sin?

My Country—
Take courage; be not afraid.
Sweet land, God waits—
no one knows His yardsticks or His dates.

It is clearly written
that His mercy has no end.
It’s written that God loves this world;
He came to save, not to condemn. 

My Country—
Seek Jesus’ blood torn face—
streaked with compassion
full of grace—

Oh, America,
nations will rise,
nations will fall,
the final end is written.

Growing beside the river of life
stands a tree**
with leaves to heal all nations—
even ours.

• from “The New Colossus” by Emma Lazarus engraved on the Statue of Liberty. I wrote an earlier, shorter, more judgmental version of this poem in 1997 and published it in Places; this version is today’s, February 9, 2017

**Revelation 22: 1-2 And he showed me a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and of the Lamb. In the midst of the street of it, and on either side of the river, was there the tree of life, which bare twelve manner of fruits, and yielded her fruit every month: and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. KJV