Life-lines on palms, star-signs in skies,
random tea-leaf patterns in empty cup:
false prophecies, readily-believed lies;
such perfumed poison we so readily sup.
We long to peer behind life’s curtain,
we are readily ruled by myth and magic,
moon-myopic our sight, quite uncertain;
some decisions stupid, others certainly tragic.
Telescoped far horizons eagerly-scanned,
pertinent prophetic guidance we refuse;
will our final destination be as planned,
will we listen to wisdom-whispered clues?
Who, or what, guides our fallible future;
we seek meaning, hungry for true hope;
when blades bite veins, who will suture?
when uncertainty comes, how will we cope?
I will turn to my maker, star-field Lord,
this long-lost lamb by Shepherd-blessed,
I’m protected by strong, sharp sword:
love-nailed limbs, once pinion pressed.
“Let your astrologers come forward, those stargazers who make predictions month by month, let them save you from what is coming upon you. Surely they are like stubble; the fire will burn them up. They cannot even save themselves from the flame… Each of them goes on in his error; there is not one that can save you.”
Isaiah 47:13-15 NIV.