by Patrick Reed
Boston weeps tonight
Where distance-prophets stride in elegant steps down the asphalt river
with yellow lines uniting all from Hopkington to Boylston’s epic finish
And yellow balloons soar skyward into bluest skies like the runners’ racing;
Where aged sages and youthful innocents stride towards the finish
Where one hundred and sixteen times before the harriers worked to cross to glory;
Whilst merry Bostonians yearly give their Monday best
When brilliant and clear the finishers close quickly,
And rampant patriotic banners sweep the free-est skies in streaks of red and blue and pure white
And police and racing officials blink away the joyous tears of the ever-innocent laurel crown;
Whilst children hug to father’s necks and mothers dote on daughter’s sun-beamed locks
Where men have always already pushed their injured children through the Commonwealth for glory
Where Heartbreak is analogous to knowing discipline’s victory
Where rocking music rumbles cheering beats and runners pace to its near victory-song:
There, there has been a great cacophony – –
There! There! arose two terrible clouds of sorrow
There, there the son has fallen beside his loved ones
And lost and lost and lost that race he watched.
And there have died two daughters who longed to cheer on unknown passersby.
But who has lost? What has been taken?
Can freedom’s life be purchased from the God-blessed child?
Or torn from Liberty’s arms though her elegant arms are taken?
Can liberty be purged by war and violent bombings?
Would Liberty give her best for weakness hurled
In empty, anonymous and resentful concussions?
The weak foe has weakened more his piteous flaws
Which try to reason that a cure for envy
Is his hideous faceless evil throw.
The glorious silence of the distance runners’ joyous strides
Has been confused and shocked and maimed by that second untrained challenger’s hate.
But all at once Love once again has slain
That awful brokenness called hate.
On Boylston ever the sturdiest cries will ever echo not the shattering glass and metal and concrete
Which tried again in vain to crack th’American Dream;
Instead on history’s pages Bolyston’s greatest finish-line will ever mark the crossing point to that which
selfish envy never will and never can enjoy
Boston’s Marathon finish line will only ever resound with the glories of the heavenly hosts’ hymns brought
forth by 26.2 miles of American greatness.
May God bless Boston tonight and every night.
image credit: nazarene.org