Dale Lloyd

It matters not the structures—
the systems we had trusted, long made known.
How quickly—oh, so quickly—
are they shaken, overthrown.

Time-proven safeguards, measured lines,
that served us faithfully and well—
how can they all be cast aside,
as if flung headlong into hell?

How have the mighty fallen
while believing they stood tall?
History keeps teaching us:
the harvest answers every call.

Through lengthened years of peace and calm,
of neighbours’ open hands—
how does it vanish in a heartbeat,
in the madness of a plan?

I see a world tipping—
losing its long-term balance.
I’m left to wonder now:
what will be the dance?

In corridors of power
we seem to have no voice,
and so I’m left still pondering—
what, then, is my choice?

Like the prophet of an ancient day,
perhaps we’ll yet discover
that the truest power quietly rests
with those who wait in prayer
upon their own watchtower. And there we stand—eyes open, hearts awake.
Faithful through each and every hour.
And in the presence of the mess,
His sovereign hand we still confess.