Heavenly Father, as I older grow
The sights and sounds of human treachery
Weigh heavily upon me—though I know
Escape from them awaits the death of me.
Today I see, cut down within her prime,
A lovely child, one hunted like a fox
By law’s enforcers in a wanton crime
Though she had done no wrong—a paradox.
Lord, how such huntsmen came to be, so hateful
Deriding innocence with scorn and anger,
I know not; but for her the matter fateful
As though malice had taken form to hang her.
The lynchings of the past, remain in force,
The ghosts which walk amongst us are not dead,
And human perturbations run their course
In spite of cries for mercy, justice pled.
A lovely child, thou takest to thy breast
For to revivify, engorge the good,
But we remain, to face another test
Mechanisms whereof scarce understood.
I beg thee, insofar that I may plead
For retribution, having not the strength
To ask for mercy in this hour of need,
Yet let a turning come—soon or at length.
How to retrieve a soul that has been cast
Unto eternity, this mortal coil
Evacuated—let us learn at last
If there be recompense to come with toil.
If any did deserve safekeeping, Lord,
Then it was Sandra Bland—malicious hands
Prevented heart’s desire, but spirit soared
Whither she must now sing with heavenly bands.