‘Firstborn Son’ by Andrew Osenga

I was the firstborn son of a firstborn son, 

in the wake of family tragedy.

After fruitless years I was the chosen one 

to plant the flag of destiny.

To eyes who saw what they had seen, 

I was a screaming bloody symbol

Of life and what it once had been 

before the marching crush of evil.

I was the firstborn son of a firstborn son.

We prayed each night to the risen God 

for our loved ones health and safety.

Then we locked the doors and windows up 

til there was no danger, we were not free.

The big bad world was on the hunt 

and its dogs were fixed on our scent.

Clouds of fear may block the sun 

still the earth remains in orbit.

 

God, help the man who helps himself. 

He needs no other devil.

Give us courage now to say farewell 

to this fear and watch it crumble. 

 

I've worked a job since I was twelve years old, 

a student of the middle class of America.

Pull up your bootstraps baby, you're on your own. 

You are what you have, you don't have much.

The manna rained down from the sky 

and I looked for explanation.

Moses walked the sea bone-dry 

in my father's generation. 

And this firstborn son won't stop asking why.

God, help the man who helps himself! 

He needs no other devil. 

Give me courage now to face myself 

and dance as these walls crumble,

Torn down by the blood of a firstborn son.