You brought me out from a land of scarcity,
To green pastures, a land of milk and honey.
I pitched my tents and dug my wells in alien lands,
Gained the favour of kings with tact and discretion.
Made my wealth in cattle, gold and silver,
Worsted my enemies in Elam, Dan and Damascus.
In gratitude I raised altars for you in Sechem and Bethel,
Shunned the gods of Canaanites and Philistines.
Paid my tithe to your high priest at Salem,
Who blessed me in your name, with bread and wine.
A stranger in a strange land, took nothing not justly mine,
Not a thread, nor shoelace, from kinsman or foe.
Passing over my burnt offerings, you spoke to me
From the smoking furnace and the burning lamp,
Bestowed on me as an everlasting inheritance,
All the lands from the Nile to the Euphrates.
Childless, with only a slave from Damascus for an heir,
You gave me a son in my old age to inherit my fortunes.
I built a grove of tamarisks at the well of Beersheba,
Burnt incense to you and swore eternal allegiance.
It was more than I could bear and my faith to endure,
When you asked for my son for a burnt offering.
Ask of me anything else, O God, I cried,
A heifer, a ram, or a goat, even myself for a sacrifice.
Waiting to be consumed by the burning bush,
Or the mountain to split open and swallow me,
I heard your voice, tender as the morning dew,
Touching my stricken soul like gentle rain:
I’m well pleased in you, my son, for the test you’ve won,
Cursed you would’ve been, any other answer had you given.
I’m not a blood-thirsty God, like other gods you’ve seen,
Every life is precious to me; out of myself I’ve created them.
Would I be pleased with a thousand rams and rivers of oil?
The world is mine, and the cattle on a thousand hills.
I blessed you because you were just in my eyes,
Not for your sacred groves and votive stones.
Bring no vain offerings, no New Moon and Sabbath for me,
My sacrifices are a humble spirit, a kind and contrite heart.
On my altar, justice and righteousness shall flow like rivers,
I’m the God of love, and I will be with you till end of time.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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