Snapping the Chords That Bound Him

Based on 1 Samuel 25

His brothers—who'd forever be reminding him
they'd fought long before he'd ever toddled—
had advised, saying, "When charging the enemy, 
if the burning drive doesn't arise, then stir it up
by imagining what these curs will do to us if you don't attack."

"Those images," they'd said, "will waken your muscles to war,
ignite your fury, and numb your body in the face of enemy darts."
Then they'd tousled his hair, teased his scowl, and left for battle, 
reminding their little shepherd to guard the feast for heroes' homecoming.

He'd not forgotten their paternal advice, but the lion 
and bear proved such visions unneeded.
Just a lamb in the maw of a beast
woke that wrathful fire within.
A bully to beat and a flock to protect 
triggered adrenaline's rush.
And with God on his side, 
who could stand against?

So it was with Goliath cursing Israel's God.
So it was for Michal, the bride price of foreskins.
So it was with the Philistines fighting David's king.
So it was with whoever threatened kinsmen. 
They found a burning brand,
a shepherd's passion in heart, head, and hand.

It was no different now. Was it not? 
This tenseness in his chest? This anger goading him on?
These were the same stirrings he'd often known.
And like his fingers stuck clenching sword 'till the battle was won,
this passion wrapped around him demanding something done.

"Rebellious slaves these days," that fool had said,
"insubordinate to their masters from whom they've run,"
—as if David could return to watching his father's sheep, 
as if David could still sing off the king's lack of sleep,
as if David could still guard the prince in fight,
as if David could protect at home his won wife,
as if David were the one who'd abandoned master and flock 
and not the other way around since Saul after him sought.

That fool knew nothing, but he'd be made to that day.
He'd learn how David had stood in every bandit's way
chasing thieves, lions and wolves set on nabbing the stock
of that drunkard who refused to acknowledge his debts.
And though these sheep were not David's
—God had yet given him the flock—
this fire within could not now be stopped.

So he'd called up four hundred,
—yes, that'd do the trick,—
and they'd strapped on their swords,
the broad, slim, and quick.
They'd cut down every cur in Carmel that day
too drunk to recall the gift of ease at work.
And if that fool came to meet him
between Paran and Carmel,
four hundred would suffice in a scrimmage there too
especially now that the burning drive had taken reign,
all his muscles wakened, numbing his heart's great pain.

Four hundred could've stopped any force in range.
But four hundred couldn't stop that drive 
commandeering as the fighting spirit, 
the shepherd's staff,
and holy space for wrath.
No sword could protect him from the blindness inside.
And those four hundred would've slaughtered 
Nabal's house at David's heart's expense
had not the scent of meat cut through their intent,
reminding them of hunger pangs they'd forgotten in descent,
and causing them pause mid-march in that valley
where beneath the shadow of the mountain,
there came the freshly baked bread in baskets overflowing.
There came the cakes of raisins and figs dried sweet.
There came the skins of wine taken from beside the drunkard's seat,
along with roast sheep, the cooked meat 
succulently wafting like incense from heaven.

A feast set before him in the presence of his enemies
had been sent on donkeys as gifts to feed the hungry.
And there behind her gifts rode a guardian of peace
with no sword strapped to thigh like the warriors had.
She bowed low and acknowledged his wounds within.
She took the blame for wrongs she had not commit.

Such Peace snapped the cords holding captive his heart
letting him breath again like a real warrior at his art.
In an instant, his own strength lost its grasp
to the abundance brought on donkeys' backs.

She was not the one.
In fact, she'd later be absorbed into his band of outcasts
and willingly fall into obscurity
washing feet
like her master
the real King on a donkey.

Here’s a short explanation and reading of this poem in my Poet’s Corner.