Angels, a prose poem

july sunset
1 Photo: July Sunset

When you’re called to be sick and not well, when you’re called to mourn, not rejoice, when you’re called to sit in sackcloth and ash not splendorous robes, when the ache of days fades to the ache of night, when friends become foes and foes strike in their might, when God beats a distant drum and doesn’t warm the hearth, when sweet becomes bitter and heart wilts with fright, angels are watching from the wings. And perhaps they bear up the most unspeakable things. Perhaps they lift up the most sorrowful songs and breathe breaths of life into the weariest lungs. And perhaps they draw maps in the stars and desperately beckon, look, here’s where you are. Here’s God’s throne. It’s not that far.

Elizabeth Pinborough

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