PADDLE TALES

There were six of us in all---
   marveled that we survived;
Not one perished in the flee.

Walking in ankle-deep water,
  we struggled and strained
  tugging our boats ashore;
   we fell on the ground
   to rest there for a spell.

Needing a fire,
  we gathered sticks and twigs
  and a few dry bones;
  striking rocks to get a blaze going.

Everything we had was wet---
  our clothes, food, harps still in tune---
  from not knowing the swelling currents
  in downstream water this time of year.

We hung our possessions in the trees
   to hopefully dry before the dawn.

Should we go or should we stay?
   we asked ourselves in the night.
'Tis better to die on a desert island,
   than return to Babylon,
   to its misery and darkness.
 
Zeke said we should look to Zion,
   for a sign we should see there,
   as a prophet of God
   he breathed no lies.

Pushing north
   we paddled upstream
   toward the destination
   we had chosen.

The days were long,
   the nights longer,
with fear on every side
   and in the boats with us.

And there it was
   as clear as the moon!

A cross stood in Jerusalem.