A Psalm for the Ninth Hour

A poem

Eli, Eli, lamma

It has always been the ninth hour

Wherever a deafened tempest is,

For the waters are come

Raging waves, only to break into

Lifting-up of hands, like question marks.

Eli, Eli, lamma

Cries a son of man in Jerusalem;

All he hears is ‘Tis well, ‘tis well.

For the waters are come

Never to be answered, either from

Above or under, but with gall and vinegar.

O God, come to my assistance

A muffled cry from an Egyptian slave

O Lord, make haste to help me

An acute howl from a Babylonian leper

Save me, O God

For the waters are come

Prayers always vanish into the deep

At the ninth hour: an old empty stool,

A third round of chemotherapy,

And a round-trip ticket punched once.

As wax melteth before the fire,

Eli, Eli, lamma?

There is no sure standing

For the waters are come

And no answer seems to come

To every deafened soul, crying

O God, be not thou far from me

But for a son crying in Jerusalem,

Eli, Eli, lamma

For the waters are come

At the ninth hour,

My cry is not heard; but The Son of Man cried

With a loud voice; And I

Have looked for none but

One that would grieve together with me

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