Dale Lloyd

From the far edge of the wilderness
she lifts her voice and cries—
by day she calls, by night she weeps
beneath unlistening skies.

She stands as one appointed,
a watchful voice at dawn,
calling travelers to turn again
before the light is gone.

But she is brushed aside, ignored
by the proud and self-assured.
“We have no need of yesterday,” they say,
“its lessons are unsure.
The former days are finished now,
their warnings out of date.
We are the ones who understand,
we shape the world—we choose its fate.”

“Don’t speak to us of ancient words
or paths already trod.
This is a new and wiser age—
we’ve closed the door on God.”

So each man lifts his chosen blade
and marches toward the flame,
unaware—or choosing not to see—
this ground still bears old stains.

And through her tears she lifts her cry,
a wisdom born of pain.
She knows the cost, she knows the road,
she’s seen this grief time and again.

Yet still she stands upon the wall
and will not cease to plead—
for even now, if hearts would turn,
there’s mercy still decreed.

At the altar of insanity
she sets the record plain,
knowing if it goes unheard—
Well, here we go again.