A psalm of Isaak, hoarsely sung.
And yet again the wicked in his arrogance, in his acutely hemmed and tapered sense of self has found sufficient opportunity to hound the lowly.
And yet again, Great Enabler, the lowly, draped in their accustomed modesty and threadbare suits bereft have seized the chance to suffer quietly, stage left.
Therefore, now again, I puzzle why, O Holy Silence, why do You appear to bide unheeding some great distance hence?
Why, O Blithely Unapparent, do you remain serenely imperceptible, even to our thinning crew who stand here blinking at the sky?
I have no stomach for the newspapers, no heart for the brilliant, flat-screen lit catalog of woes, though every item flickers, one admits, wondrously produced and duly sponsored.
See here. The wicked boasts about his late successes, the grasping man complains that he is cheated of his share, while all the while the self-concerned continue banking largely on Your accustomed reticence, and must needs let out their trousers still several measures more, having wagered well.
Pinched beneath their spinning machinations and all their neat machines, we grind our teeth, yea, even as we sleep.
—Scott Cairns is the author most recently of The End of Suffering (Paraclete Press).
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