"Up Heaven's Slope: Dedicated to Our Kedoshim”

Why wrenched from hearth and home,
o'er hills and fields whence they came?
 Dreaming dreams didst thou freely roam,
 awakening to morning cold and lame.

Wearily trod up heaven's slope,

gray figures stooped, transparently thin,

recalling life from days before …

while awaiting storms of Heavenly din.

Unlike Goliath in battle fell,
a travail, cold and dark, did numb

that David who had fought so well
would soon that night succumb.

Prayerful hopes shoes be found
for souls bereft and torn,
a moment to rest, a breath to breathe
for spirits dulled and worn.

Should not there have been one                   
for whom faith steadfast but rare,
that his would be ennobled by Thee
to seek his just and fair?

Who glimpsed the light but touched him not ...
whose spark had begun to wane.
Next day ere long gathered clouds again
for fewer who remain.

Bowed under lash by day,
by night a storm did rage.
Why had He not shown His way
a war He could have waged?

Aside bodies on planks they lie
precious heat what little remain.
Dreaded welcome soon might bring
next to whom they had just lain.

Still in death's kingdom shone
a light, a way, the day
when dawn’s rising would fewer eyes see                     
whose faith did them sustain.

The world we choose points us down
paths long sought by peace,
in the gardens of which we plant the seeds
lest memories tragically cease.

Alan D. Busch
May 2008