The angel in the flak jacket.



The angel stood tall

The flak jacket black on her glowing, golden skin,

the machine gun glorified

a life newly lost,

A tear


crawling down her cheek,

The child lay at her feet,

Clay coloured skin

Congealing bloody ebony curls,

The appalled angel

a soldier triumphant.

Her body slumped,

his head held high

She held out her hand for the hundredth time that day,


the tiny trembling hand,

The angel whispered and the child asked,

“Is heaven a place then,

where you take children

when grown ups have killed them?”

and clinging to her hand,

tearfully, hopeful,

“Is Mummy here too!”

Jesus bent down to take the child

and wept,

his tear tracked face,

love torn,

pierced hands

holding him,

healing his

hurting heart and

the child turned

for the angel, who

already ranging,


another child,

a lifeless body,

a forsaken skeleton,

in a world where

a child’s life is cheap,

and war valued.


Hilary Evans

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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