By a good friend and theologian/poet … Karen Gritter
The Barricade
"I stand at the door and knock"
The door is shut
The bar in place
Rusted the lock
Lost the key
Black the blood
Upon the ground
And on the door
Where your slave was bound
And tortured long
Until she died
Her spirit fled
And does not haunt
The place beyond
Where hope awaits
But in the dark
A lonesome lark
With broken wing
Who cannot sing
A casualty of hate
Which did never abate
They speak of love
But it seems too late
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