Glory In Jenin

Six hundred Palestinians have been slain -- all -- all -- all --
Fathers and mothers and boys and girls and black-eyed babes.
It is a glorious victory.

I weep for the little children who shall never play again;
The little children of the slim soft limbs, so full of grace.
I have seen these naked little children lying about like broken toys,
Their fat little arms and legs tossed about as if they were asleep. Dead!
Their chubby bodies naked and glistening;
Their laughter forever hushed. Ended their childish joy of living,
Ended by a blue hole in the forehead -- by a black spot on the breast -- by a bullet in the smooth, soft belly.

I have seen them lie under the sun, wounded, wailing for water -- dying.
I have seen them with eyes staring and patient, not understanding; I have seen their eyes clouded in the hideous suffering, waiting for death.
I have seen the mangled abdomens and shattered limbs and the dumb, frightened look of their eyes, saying,
"Why must we die? Why must we be killed? Why should our childish lives be ended?"
Why! In the name of Christ, the compassionate, the all merciful -- Why?
I have heard the sharp shriek of childish agony as the bullet struck its soft mark.
I have heard the childish moans as little boys lay dying -- killed by brave soldiers.
I have seen the gentle mother stoop over her slendor boy and fall upon him, dead, --
She, too, crushed by a bullet, --
Mingling their blood together in death as when she gave him life.
Or did God give it?

I have seen all fathers, all mothers, all brave young boys with full round chests and flashing black eyes, all the young maids,
All the long haired little boys and the prattling little girls,
All -- all -- lying at last quiet in death, -- not one left alive;
The slim young boys lying on their backs, their full rounded chests torn with bullets,
Their eyes staring into the sky,
Their smooth young arms listless by their sides.
I have smelled the smell of blood and the stench of carrion has come upon me,
So that I waked from sleep;
And I looked into the silent eternity of the stars and trembled,
For the carrion was the smooth soft bodies of mothers and of children who have ceased from their playing.
And I said to myself, to comfort myself, "There is no God!
Behold the hyena! It spares not, and sups upon carrion.
And the jackal and the raven. Behold, the lion slays what it will."
Then I arose and crept to the Dreadful Place;
And I looked in over the edge of the bulldozed crater,
And the bodies of the fathers, mothers and children glistened under the white moon, -- nursed on the soil which had borne them.
And all about, on the rocks, perched the dogs,
Heavy with full feeding. They had torn out the eyes of the little children,
And tore the hearts of the little maids, and the soft breasts of the mothers,
And I snuffed up the scent of the carrion,
And I said, exultingly, to exalt my country,
"There is no God."

It was a glorious victory!
Jesus, thou weak man of poor estate,
What dost thou know of glory, or delicious wealth?
Thou timid preacher of peace and love.
Behold us! Our arms are red with blood to the elbows, and we have sickened the air with the smell of blood.
We have thrust our hand into the warm bowels of little children and torn out their young hearts;
We have quenched the love light in the eyes of mothers, and the love lamps in their hearts;
We have silenced the laughter of innocent children;
We have shot from afar and crushed the tender bones of little ones, and made baby hearts to jet out red fountains, through baby breasts.
With bullets we have dashed the brains of lad and of budding bosomed girls upon the rocks.
The vultures and the tigers fled away to hide themselves, to return only when our work was done.
We have fed the date palms with blood, so that their leaves shall wither and their fruit be accursed.
We have smeared our lips with the blood of babes, and with tears from the eyes of little children as they died in agony.
We shot from afar off, and laughed at the wails of children.
We laughed at the sickening hiccough of a mother, shot through the womb.
Get thee back upon thy cross, thou pale weak Jesus.
Whisper no more thy foolish tale of brotherhood and pity.
For our hearts are big with the lust of conquest.
Blood wells up between our toes as we tread our pathway.
We are brave!

Pitiful Jesus, what didst thou know of such bravery as ours?
We have thrust our arms into the warm bowels of children, and held their hearts quivering upon our hands.
It was a glorious victory.
And there is no God.

An adaption of the original -"Glory" by C Woods.