![]() |
This is a work about a prayer offered to God. |
Oh, LORD, I cannot write. The words have gone from me. All that remains is the sight of Blood, Waking, sleeping, always before me, Because I have done my Duty in War, And because I have been The Staff Sergeant. I can no longer Cry, LORD, and I cannot, for certain, Weep. It has all gone from me, Master, For the Guilt has taken my Soul. One Soul is as Another to You, God - I have Slain those You have called Precious In Your Sight. They were Perhaps more Precious To You, Almighty, than I Myself am. Now they Have Suffered Death at my Hand, and the Blood still Cries out to me Day and Night - What would You have me Do, LORD? I did my Duty. War was my Duty, and I Volunteered for it. There was no Draft, No Compulsory Measure taken to Force me To Kill, except the Threatening actions of a Few, Yet they were Precious to You just the same. I Feel the Numbness - the Death of my Soul - It is called by us Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am on Guard always, God, and Distressed at Shadows Passing. I cannot Feel, yet the Anger Destroys my Soul Constantly and without Reprieve. My Sleep - What Sleep? - is Interrupted always by Nightmares And I shall Never be Safe again. I Contemplate Ending my Own Life, LORD, in Your Service, To Prevent further Evil on my Part, to seek Forgiveness, For what can Ever Atone for what I have Done? |