My friend, she says, is sustained day by day,
Just like the widow in Lebanon.
Polio, yes, takes all her strength away,
Health’s not what she’s depending on.
The widow, she scrapes, together one last potpie,
Convinced her son won’t go on living.
By famine, true, means they both will die,
Biscuits and oil are life-giving.
The prophet, thus says, shall put end to the fast,
With challah bread from oil and flour.
Her only son, gasp, breathes away his last,
Crushed beneath deaths’ dark power.
Holy man, I’m marred, sin is brought to light,
Is it your plan to kill or set free?
“Thy beloved, see, alive and alright,”
She glimpses Him from Galilee.
Oh Lord, we sing, how long these bitter pains?
Drought of oil while famine breaks and mars,
He will provide, trust, hear the gentle rains,
Oh
Lord fill these our earthen jars.
Photo by Roberta Sorge on Unsplash
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