Samuel Returns

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The call to go back. After days preaching, raising his voice to a people
become for themselves. A people who mocked his warnings (fools
mock), saw him as filthy and loathsome. Mistaking cankering riches
for rightness, whiteness for delightsome; heritage for righteousness;
ignoring
                                                                        your dual inheritance—
your two traditions,
the intersection of promises:
to blossom
after days prolonged,
to speak from the dust
after cycling to extinction.
You
called Lamanite
yet
a child of
the covenant.
You knew your tradition.
You were cast in the mold.
Raised up
after the ancient pattern.
Called out,
filled with visions,
given to see,
and sent forth
among strangers
to testify.
And it came to pass that after days ignoring his preaching, they cast
him out. And he, eyes heavy with sorrow, but fixed homeward—he,
there on the road ready to return to his own land—he, weary as sin,
heard the voice of the Lord and the call to go back
                                                                        back to a people
with hearts chiseled
from flakes
of brittle
pink
sandstone.

This people with those hearts: they had suffered his upbraidings long
enough. Having already been cast out, he now tries to return? They
will not suffer him to enter their prosperous city: they have no need
of such sanctimony, such doomsaying. And so you are welcomed
back with shut gates,
                                                                        but shut gates
have never deterred
you—you covet
to prophesy.
You turn
your gaze
towards
the city wall;
find an unguarded stretch;
pray for strength
and stealth,
a veiling of
the Holy Spirit.
And as your
fingers and toes
find purchase in
the crumbling mortar
you begin
to climb,
all too aware
                                                                        that like Abinadi
(he the roots; Alma the trunk;
Lamoni the grafted branch;
and you the bud)
you must deliver
a final,
damning
testimony,
a sealing witness.
That old
repentance or doom dialogue.
A triple wo.
At the wall, Zarahemla’s watchtowers stand empty. No sentries
posted; no one to overlook the land and see the enemy from afar
off—well, sure, Nephi upon his garden tower but he is much more
talked about than listened to—what need has one of prophets when
there is delicate living at hand, when there are the softest raiments,
the finest apparel to wear, and vanities to babble, and boastings to
proclaim and treasure to heap up, and what warnings are needed
when society is secure within stout walls
                                                                        and as you climbed
the city wall
was there fire on your mind?
Knowing as you know
what the Lord
has required
of his servants in times past.
Wondering if
your blood
would be required
to seal
your testimony
against
the blind minds
below—the earth
crying out, your sojourn
cut short,
your soul saved, but elsewhere;
your mortal
eyes unable
to witness
your beautiful family
one
more
time
in this life.
The news spreads like wildfire, like disease, like envying and pride
and strife: the Lamanite has returned. Has the gall, the poor taste to
resume his warnings, to stretch his hand forth in judgement; to shout
down on the people from on high, the city wall his Rameumptom. At
least Nephi had the good taste to stick to his own property. And what
sorcery is it that this man’s voice is so loud, so piercing; and why does
he speak of curses and slippery treasure; and how is it
                                                                        the words you are given
—these mysteries
and peaceable things
that
flow
from your
mouth
like rain
rushing
to fill
a dry
creek bed
—how is it
that these
words are
not
yours,
yet sound so
familiar, issue forth in such
startling
abundance
as if your tongue
had been touched
by a hot coal
or by angels?
And still he will not cease. This Lamanite, this self-righteous fool,
this man who is not from our city and knows not our ways and yet
dares accuse of such horrible things. This man must be stopped.
Pry up stones; run and fetch my bow. Grab a couple of slings while
you’re at it. We don’t want to dirty our beautifully woven sashes.
And as the people of the city fling stones and loose arrows like
doves or darts or warnings at the foreigner standing brazenly atop
the city wall, a hail of fire swarming, clotting, converging
like rumors or bees
                                                                        did you shrink
from
their biting touch
or did you
stand firm: braced
for consequences,
for martyrdom,
for a deserving,

triumphant

return

but not

the one

you had

wanted.

And when you realized

                                                                        they could not
harm you,
did you wonder
if you, the good and faithful
servant
would yet have
his reward?
And did
a seed
of hope
enter your breast,
and begin to swell?
And did you dare
nourish it?
Or
were you intent on
scanning the faces
of the mob,
searching
for some soul,
even
just
one
who had listened to
your words—
or rather
the words
that had been
given
to you—and
was now
ready
to repent?