Qoholeth

A prophet to dry places

Called to the wandering

He sees their haunted faces

Laughing, crying, lingering

And he knows their hearts are heavy

And he know they are confused

Buying wholesale in the marketplace

Any new deal that they choose

He knows they have everything to lose.

Here in the aereopagus

Of shattered dreams and ploys

Their sorrow terminates their trust

And renders songs to noise.

Heís a prophet to the pagan

And a harbinger of love

For those who dare not hope to plan

To raise their eyes above

One word may be enough.

For once he was a prisoner

Now he is set free

And he dare not cheat the listeners

Now he cannot keep his peace.

A tiller of unfertile fields

A keeper ofÝ lost sheep

A survivor whoís been truly healed

And rescued from the deep.

Now he weeps with those who weep

In the desert of the classroom

In the offices and bars

In the blight of the boardroom

In the cults and culture wars

To the one who violates the womb

To the ones who bear their scars

In these holy halcyon days of doom

Thereís a stairway to the stars

If you want see that far.

Heís a warrior and a watchman

Who dares to stand and speak

The truth in loveís his only plan

And peace is what he seeks

Now this is where his calling

Has led him now to stand

In a place where night is falling

In a dry and weary land

Godís wish is his command.

Anthony Foster

August 28, 2009