Psalm 120

We are for peace, cry the mothers in Russia,
Cry the children in Ukraine,
Cry the women in Tehran,
Cries the prone journalist in the West Bank.

But when we cry, you are for war,
As though war has honour and glory,
As though war is redemptive and winnable,
As though war has meaning beyond title and profit.

Woe is me, that I live on the streets of Kyiv,
Woe is me that I starve in the dark in Moscow,
Woe is me that I march with the doomed in Iraq,
Woe is me that I’m killed taking pictures in Palestine.

In my distress, I cried unto the Lord,
But the Lord is busy weeping over our rush to extinction, or
The Lord has taken some time away, weary of being claimed, then praised, or
The Lord has a dark side, unimaginable, like the inside of a volcano.

I screamed, Deliver my soul, O Lord,
From treacherous lips,
From tongues of terror,
From exploding arrows.

We are on the run, O Lord,
From men that hate peace,
From shareholders that hold hostage the world,
From presidents that wrap themselves in priestly linens
And pray to the Lord.

We are on the run,
We race, breathless across open fields,
We hold each other’s hands, carry our babies, and run,
We tell our little ones
We are between homes.