The Scapegoat

The living breath is ragged in his throat,

His legs are tense, not knowing where to run,

Or which way fear will come. His strength is spent

And yet his walking death is scarce begun.

Driven away from safe familiar fields

Driven away from any shepherd’s care

No more sweet grass is offered to his lips

He must find food where all is scant and bare.

This is the realm of jackal and of owl

The haunting absences, the empty sere,

A desolation fully destitute

Where every stone and rock will whisper “fear…”

Driven, unshriven, under a fierce sky,

Lost in a land that breathes no kindliness,

How can he know – poor, dumb and suffering beast –

That God’s own self shall walk this wilderness?