The Firstborn Son
It’s February, spring is near
Please tell her she’s not welcome here
The sun smiles down, but brings no cheer
It’s far too bright, sheds burning tears
A whip-poor-will sang in a tree
A psychopomp, a bell for thee
I knew her song but not if she
Came that day for you or me
A world no longer cloaked in frost
Is unaware of what it lost
When plague came for the firstborn son
In homes destroying angel crossed
We’ve bruised our knees on hardwood floors
The blood dries brown upon the door
The angels and the devils play
A game to see who mocks us more
But if upon some distant shore
St. Peter guards a golden door
Then angels sing your footsteps where
Our Common Devil mocks no more
R. Hyrum Birckardas 