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1 [For the choirmaster To 'the Doe of the Dawn' Psalm Of David] My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? The words of my groaning do nothing to save me.

2 My God, I call by day but you do not answer, at night, but I find no respite.

3 Yet you, the Holy One, who make your home in the praises of Israel,

4 in you our ancestors put their trust, they trusted and you set them free.

5 To you they called for help and were delivered; in you they trusted and were not put to shame.

6 But I am a worm, less than human, scorn of mankind, contempt of the people;

7 all who see me jeer at me, they sneer and wag their heads,

8 'He trusted himself to Yahweh, let Yahweh set him free! Let him deliver him, as he took such delight in him.'

9 It was you who drew me from the womb and soothed me on my mother's breast.

10 On you was I cast from my birth, from the womb I have belonged to you.

11 Do not hold aloof, for trouble is upon me, and no one to help me!

12 Many bulls are encircling me, wild bulls of Bashan closing in on me.

13 Lions ravening and roaring open their jaws at me.

14 My strength is trickling away, my bones are all disjointed, my heart has turned to wax, melting inside me.

15 My mouth is dry as earthenware, my tongue sticks to my jaw. You lay me down in the dust of death.

16 A pack of dogs surrounds me, a gang of villains closing in on me as if to hack off my hands and my feet.

17 I can count every one of my bones, while they look on and gloat;

18 they divide my garments among them and cast lots for my clothing.

19 Yahweh, do not hold aloof! My strength, come quickly to my help,

20 rescue my soul from the sword, the one life I have from the grasp of the dog!

21 Save me from the lion's mouth, my poor life from the wild bulls' horns!

22 I shall proclaim your name to my brothers, praise you in full assembly:

23 'You who fear Yahweh, praise him! All the race of Jacob, honour him! Revere him, all the race of Israel!'

24 For he has not despised nor disregarded the poverty of the poor, has not turned away his face, but has listened to the cry for help.

25 Of you is my praise in the thronged assembly, I will perform my vows before all who fear him.

26 The poor will eat and be filled, those who seek Yahweh will praise him, 'May your heart live for ever.'

27 The whole wide world will remember and return to Yahweh, all the families of nations bow down before him.

28 For to Yahweh, ruler of the nations, belongs kingly power!

29 All who prosper on earth will bow before him, all who go down to the dust will do reverence before him. And those who are dead,

30 their descendants will serve him, will proclaim his name to generations

31 still to come; and these will tell of his saving justice to a people yet unborn: he has fulfilled it.

The Professional

Lucanus had recently retired from the job had loved. He had worked hard at it; over the years becoming a master. He was heavily recruited and his wife and family had moved several times. All for the career. His career. . . . He was the consummate professional.

Only once had he been drawn into it. Lost it. He liked looking into their eyes, the fear, the terror. It excited him. But the groveling, the begging; disgusted him. He really loved the screams, the pain. It was almost sexual.

Once though, a dirt bag seemed happy with all the pain. At least, that’s what his eyes said. And, he refused to scream. He kept beating the scum until his partner tackled him. Then, he ran outside, made a mat of brier and smashed it on scum bag’s head. He twisted it, screwed it on real good. No way to get that off. Still, no noise, the scum’s eyes were smiling! Weird, crazy. That jackass was nuts. No other explanation.

Later he saw the crud and two others. Crud seemed to be talking. Suddenly, one of the other asses was smiling. He stared. Then that scum turned; their eyes locked. He couldn’t stop staring. The guy was happy. …. Must be crazy.

A number of years ago, his wife started some women’s gibberish about people seeing dirt bag alive, but without his hat. Well, he saw him die. Dead. They lanced him. Nothing there , Nada. The stupidity was infecting his favorite (and only) grandson. He took him to the games. Make him tough. That was a while ago.

Things change. This time the kid actually arrived before him. Came on his own.

They opened the gate. Big roar. He is the center of attention. He sees the hat less man, smiling. Laying down his sword, he is moving towards his grandson, when dinner begins.


An empty church…just the organist and me

But there is my God….Hanging from a tree.

In spite of my endeavors….He seems too far from me.

Oh, what was it like on Calvary?

Your mother cries….and wails, unheard.

Where are your friends….your boyhood chums?

When now at last…. Alone you cry.

“Oh dear Father, please, let me die.”

You see them shout and rant with joy

Cause, now they’ve got...their whipping boy.

I wonder why, or where, or when

They’ll understand what You did for them

An empty church…just You and me

My loving God…hung on a tree.

Jacob Schroeder

November 25, 2007

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