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,
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.