Moses sits in the flap opening of his tent
Squinting
against the blinding desert light,
Tired
after forty years
Of
royal responsibility
Thinking
about the future,
The
tribes’, his.
The
other side of the Jordan is the future
For
the sons of the sons of Jacob,
But
not Moses.
The
men will cross first to face those
Who’d
stand against Israel’s destiny
While
he sits like a monument.
The
sand underneath him
Is
brutally hot like his inner turmoil.
He
will not see Canaan. He will die soon.
He’s
been sentenced without appeal
For
using force while seeking water when
God
told him to speak and water would flow.
He’s
angry at the people,
Incessant
complainers,
Angry
at himself for being momentarily weak,
Angry
at God for his exalted expectations,
Angry
at being angry,
Still
there’s no relief.
Someday
Job will get a chance
To
argue directly with God. And live.
But
Moses, the humblest man alive,
Shortly
after his anger assuages
Will
quietly close his eyes
On
this side of the Jordan.
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