Some folks ride the train of life looking out the rear,
Watching miles of life roll by and marking every year. 


They sit in sad remembrance of wasted days gone by,
And curse their life for what it was and hang their head and cry.

But I don't concern myself with that, I took a different vent,
I look forward to what life holds and not what has been spent.

So strap me to the engine, as securely as I can be,
I want to be out on the front, to see what I can see.

I want to feel the winds of change, blowing in my face,
I want to see what life unfolds, as I move from place to place.

I want to see what's coming up, not looking at the past,
Life's too short for yesterdays, it moves along too fast.

So if the ride gets bumpy, while you are looking back,
Go up front, and you may find, your life has jumped the track.

It's all right to remember, that's part of history,
But up front's where it's happening, there's so much mystery.

The enjoyment of living is not where we have been,
It's looking ever forward to another year and ten.

It's searching all the byways, never should you refrain,
For if you want to live your life, you gotta drive the train.
 
 
When they removed the bandages
from Justice's eyes, she had long since 
gone blind.  She had been too many days
in the dark, too long alone with
the scale in her numb hands; she could
no longer tell the true from the false.
She had stood so many years in the cold
outside the courts, as the law rushed 
past, clinging to the sleeve
of power - until the chill
had turned her veins to marble,
her eyes to opalescent stone.


Yet those who tore the veil away
could swear they were being watched,
and though it must have been a bit of glass
that caught a ray of sun, it was not unlike
a bright, appraising eye.  Whatever it was,
they felt caught out, ashamed,
and late at night, at home, they locked
their windows tight and slipped into the room
where the children slept, and looking down
on them - for what they couldn't say - they wept.
 
 
If God were the sun, then Israel might be the moon,
her face reflecting God's eternal light.


Yes, Israel is like the moon, the moon
who waxes and wanes,
grows old, and then renews herself,
yet never leaves the skies.


Faithfully, she spreads her pale and ghostly light
on every room and tree and blade of grass


Until the whole world turns silver,
transformed from darkness to shimmering beauty.


Yes, Israel, be like the moon,
renew your faith each generation.


Even when the earth casts its shadow of darkness,
faithfully reflect the light of God;


Pour over the whole world
the moonlight beauty of holiness.
 
 
Years ago, at the end of the Song of Deborah,
I heard the quiet of Sisera’s chariots, which were late in coming,
As I looked at Sisera’s mother watching at the window,
A woman whose hair had a silver streak.

A spoil of diverse colors of needlework
Diverse colors of needlework on both sides meet for the necks of them that
      take the spoil, the maidens saw’
At that very moment he lay like a sleeper in the tent;
His hands were very empty.
On his chin, traces of milk, butter, and blood.

The quiet was not shattered by the horses and the chariots;
The maidens also fell silent, one after the other.
My silence touched their silence. 
After a while, the sun set.
After a while, the twilight went out.

Forty years – the land was calm.  Forty years
Horses did not gallop and dead horsemen did not stare with glassy eyes.
But she died a short time after her son’s death.

 
 
Once a great love cut my life in two.
The first part goes on twisting
at some other place like a snake cut in two.

The passing years have calmed me
and brought healing to my heart and rest to my eyes.

And I'm like someone standing in the Judean desert, looking at a sign:
'Sea Level'
He cannot see the sea, but he knows.

Thus I remember your face everywhere
at your 'face Level.'