On a Bench In Birmingham
We met on a bench in Birmingham
You the 16th child of 19 with wisdom beyond all that you’ve seen
Me the middle child of three
With questions beyond my third degree.
We met on a bench in Birmingham
Beside the Freedom Walk.
How many footsteps have gotten us here?
How much blood, how many weary tears?
How many lynchings and burning crosses?
What has been given up to get us here?
For every line of march there was a phalanx of helmets and clubs.
For every ballot cast there was a sheriff on the courthouse steps.
For every prayer raised up in church there was a slamming jailhouse door.
For every song of hope there was a bomb.
Your people shedding heavy yokes of compliance
My people holding empty reins of hatred
Your people singing songs of freedom
My people justifying tyranny.
Yours is a story of holding the spirit through the loneliness of war and drugs
As those before you held the spirit through the drudgery of segregation and slavery.
Mine is a story of releasing the spirit from fear of loss and pain
As those before me released the spirit from the grip of self-righteous power.
And each of us, and all of us, seeking the same freedom.
And so we met
You spoke in an unbroken stream with God’s tongue
Your tears flowing freely in the sun
I listened desperately beyond God’s light
My tears shed in the darkness of night.
Your faith is simple, powerful
Mine is complex, fragile
Together we bore witness to the God who sustains us
Who guided those on the roads of conflict
Who brought each of us down parallel paths
To a park bench in Birmingham,
Beside the Freedom Walk.
©Mark Richards, July 2009