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.”