Psalm of The Martyr’s

 Psalm of the Martyrs

When the faithful are buried, heaven hums their song.

So many and too much the souls lined in rows.

Like dirt heaped on heads, brows they work.

Whilst standing in the damp earth with fellows,

Shovel in hand digging down to depth for decay,

Our own grave as witness to the Everlasting Name.

Against the tyrant and dictator, or those who oppress.

Claiming our end while still alive, as a measure of Testimony

In the soil as weapons waver upon our naked, mud-stained flesh.

Trained as cowards upon our back, lest they make the mistake of locking eyes

With the wrongfully condemned, and He Who Animates — and be saved.

We together straining to shape, with shovel and pick.

Our shared communal mass grave for our chosen execution.

As the wailing strings of the nearest violin sing our somber soliloquies, a final farewell.

A dirge for the dead who live, raining dirt like praise from heaven in joy.

As a cello joins its own solemn and stolid mournful hymn, harmonizing with heaven.

Soldiers with covered face and shaded eye watch willingly. Distant though near.

Weapons trained in practiced disdain for another’s life. Orders. To sleep at night.

“Present Arms!” “Train” “Fire” — shots ring, powdered smoke billows after muzzle flash.

From within the gunpowder-scented haze, a single lilting lament in trembling tenor sings hallelujah.

Intermingled and rising with death’s familiar stringed orchestra, mysteriously still playing …

The silence echoes as we the slain watch beside our bodies. Nonplussed.

Where once we dug, lain now in loamy repose, leaking red — our slumped shells.

A crimson blanket pooling sticky life’s essence tween shared rivers. Twining.

We the freed look to the skies, where from our comfort does arise. Expectant.

Awaiting and Anticipating the Arrival and Ascendence of we the Anointed.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

Praise be the Name.

Yeshua.

Dust.