Promised Land

I live in the land promised to my fathers, but I have not seen the promises fulfilled.

            Lifting my eyes, I lunge off the dusty road to dodge the galloping horses.  As I stand in the field, the sunlight flashes off the armor and swords of the soldiers.  One, two, three of them— they rush by and they are gone.  But they are not gone quickly enough for me to miss the wild dark terrified eyes of the man tied behind one of the soldiers.  Swallowing the bile that rises in my throat, I clamber onto the road and trudge on.
            I have been a slave in my own land since I was born.

Instead of joy, I know fear.

            I have heard the stories from my father, who learned them from his father, who learned them from his father, and so on— stories of our land before it was taken captive, and our people imprisioned with it.  The land was a good land, they say, a land so fertile and rich it spilt milk and honey.  No man knew what it was to starve; no child wandered the streets crying for bread.
            Things were not like they are now.

Instead of fruitfulness, I know desperate need.

            I squint out over my land, shielding my eyes from the blazing midday sun, breathless against the hot wind sweeping against my body.  This land is mine, yes, but it is not mine.  I have never known the luxury of having enough to provide over and above what my family needs.  I have never known the joy of willingly giving what I know the LORD required of me.  Taxes weigh heavily on us; we scrape out a living, praying that we will have bread each day for our children to eat.
            I know we brought this punishment upon ourselves.

Instead of blessing, I know cursing.

            I have read from the prophets, understood the words they spoke against our stubborn hearts and our prideful actions.  Our fathers sinned against the LORD, and we have followed in their footsteps.  Gladly they went to the temples of the land gods, those demons they thought would restore the fertility and joy of their home.  Willingly now we turn to the power of our own hands, our swords and scythes and bows.  As our fathers, we have neglected repentance.  We prefer to find our own way of salvation.

Instead of peace, I know strife.

            Suddenly, I glimpse my little child running toward me.  She laughs as she reaches me, and I sweep her up into my arms, tousling her curls.  I hold her close against my heart and shut my eyes.  Perhaps, though I myself have only known captivity and oppression, things will be different for my daughter.  Perhaps, though the LORD has punished us, He will yet be merciful and rescue us, as He has promised.

Our land is not a home; it is a prison, a wilderness.
Will You return, O LORD?
Deliver us!