Song of the Infanticide 

I finished the Gosnell book and it filled me with a poetic passion. I felt so grateful that we live in a world where evil is fought with truth and hate with is fought is love. But of course passion is suffering, and I began to cry as the book came to a close because Gosnell’s thousands of victims had no chance for justice of any sort in this life. They must look to the new heavens and new earth for justice, as really all of us must.

As a man who will never father children the issue of infanticide has a different significance to me. I have come to believe that in the eschaton (the final state of the cosmos after Jesus’ return) there will be lost children waiting for me. Orphans that will be given to me and my wife as our sons and daughters. And I think many of these children will have suffered the grave injustice of legalized murder. 

I wrote this poem for myself, my wife, and Gosnell’s victims (all of them, the people seeking his services, his staff, his children and wives, but most importantly those he murdered).

Song of the Infanticide 

Some where in the night there sits a spider 

Weaving webs into a noose to bind her

But instead it sits upon his shoulder

And it’s tied to the top of Winter’s Soldier

Fruit of the womb the spider has eaten 

And to our eyes the children are beaten 

But one day we shall see them undefeated

For soon this spider will be unseated 

And down his own webs he will follow

Haman’s path to the cup and swallow

The wine of his own pressing

And find it poison to the tasting 

On that day the one who suffers

By drinking poison made by others 

Will ask the spider for his wine 

So that the spider may later dine

In the new world that is to come 

Where spider victims shine like the sun

But the spider will look to his web

And find that it has become his bed

There he hangs in eternal restless sleep

And then his murders will begin to peep

Open eyes that have never opened

And hear with ears that never listened

And run with legs that never ran

And swim with arms that never swam

Singing with throats that never sung 

“Death itself has been undone!

The spider has not won!

Hung upon the gallows he spun!

The gallows rode by the true son!

By death we can no longer be stung!

For upon our gallows true son has hung!”

Empty arms these children will fill

And quaking hearts they will still

These families made in future land

Against the final evil will stand 

A misfit gang of warriors they band

Around the winter soldier hand in hand 

A question to the past they broach 

As Ragnarok makes it’s final approach 

“Join the spider and die like a roach?

Or let go of your webs and finally come home.”


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