Goshen
by Timothy Reed
Oh thee of green-gilt hills,
of rain and fecund flock.
Goshen: my home, my own.
Goshen: my home, unowned.
Oh thee of promise bright,
of cheer and laugh and sun.
Of dancing sons and full-bright moon
of firstborn right and nation’s boon.
Oh thee of slavery’s sweat,
of blood and mud and grit.
Goshen: my home, my own.
Goshen, “my home” I groan.
Oh thee of much-spent years,
oh thee of endless tears.
Goshen: my home, alone.
Goshen: my home.
To thee of strawless brick
To thee of souls made sick.
Of Nile red and moonlight dead —
Goshen.
Oh thee of my slain son!
Of mothers’ gutted cries!
Goshen!
Goshen, ’tis thine own speech
of darkened years and plans
that struck our blighted ears,
that penned our blackest fears.
Goshen: my home, my own.
Goshen: my home, disowned.
Oh thee of gleaming eye,
of myrrh and glinting gold.
I’ll pluck that sight
one God-knit night
And leave thee all alone.
Goshen.
