David, a poem

Every sermon about King David
That I’ve ever heard
Explaining how we might have emulated
Him in his quest for the heart of the Lord,
Has chastened us to dwell upon
His faithful oath to Jonathan,
His five smooth stones before the warrior of Gath
Even the day he spied on Ms. Uriah in the bath—
Think about his contrite heart, they said,
When all was brought to light—
The pious things we know he did
To set things right.

And yet: for the life of me I can’t recall
A preacher ever asking us to mimic all
The severed hands he piled on
The bloody ground by the pool of Hebron
Or all the rows of murdered Moabites
He measured out the day he won the fight.
And even worse, no mention of
His constant wrestling for a holy word
That might express his yearning love
For the goodness he had tasted in the Lord—
The bitter agony it took to show it,
His burning heart’s desire to be a warrior-poet.