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Modern Reformation: Thinking Theologically

Noah’s Wife’s Lament
Genesis 6:13–18

Published Thursday, September 1, 2022 By Mark Green


“No, go away. Your words just suck the life
From me and now our sons are scared of you
With all your fatal talk of rain and storm. 
Leave me to weep on all you’ll take from us.”

I watch him go, his shoulders curved beneath
A weight I can no longer bear. Where is
That former comfort we all shared before
His crazy dream about some future flood

Eroded all our family’s faith. The boys,
Now men, do want to trust and love the man
Who taught them how to hunt and build and live
A life of faith among our faithless friends.

Confused, like me, they try to summon hope
For one we thought we knew so well until
That day we searched and searched and then we saw
Him pacing out some vision in the desert sand.

I turn away and wander in the garden he
Designed for me when he first brought me here.
“Trust me, Ganny, watch and see what these young hands
Will build for you, though now you can’t conceive                                               

That fruit will bloom, and all around this place                          
Your friends will see what tender care brings forth
When hands that love you love as well this land,
You will see it grow as my love grows for you.”

I watched with disbelief but then it grew,
Wild, at first, but in his gentle hands
Delirious beauty blossomed unashamed
To bear the fruit of my lover of the soil.

My tears fall on the flowers of these vines,
My love for him all tangled up, confused
With questioning grief that he will take it all—
This life, our home—and wash it clean away.

Out on the plains, I see his hardened frame
Toiling in the furnace of his calling.
It isn’t that he doesn’t love this garden,
Or me. I presume, it’s what he has to do

To see it through. Somewhere out beyond our sons
Are wrestling with themselves and hordes of demons
Whispering in their ears that there’s no future
And yet still they love their father in his quest.

Across the skyline of another sunset
I view in rows what little wealth we have,
Scant mounds of faith against our flood of doubts,
Those ancient woods felled by his aging hands. 

I stand alone, hungry in this parched
And dry garden, struggling with my husband’s plan.
I’m still not sure his craft is good enough
To create the space where we begin again.

Mark Green

  • Mark Green

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