Song Of The Prophet Poem by John Chizoba Vincent

Put the cooking pot on;
Put it on the fire and pour water into it,
Put pieces of meat into it, every good piece,
The thigh and the shoulder; fill it with the choicest bones.
Take the choices sheep of the flock and stack
The logs all around under the pot.
Boil the pieces, and cook the bones inside it.

Woe to the city of blood shed,
The rusty cooking pot
Whose rust has not been removed!
Empty it piece by piece, do not cast lots for them
For its blood is within it,
She poured it out on the bare rocks
She did not pour it out on the earth,
To cover it over with dust.

To stir up rage for executing vengeance,
I have put her blood on this shinning bare rock
So that it may not be covered over.
Woe to the city of blood shed!
I will pile the wood high.

Heap on the logs and kindle the fire
Boil the flesh thoroughly, pour out the broth
And let the bones be charred.
Set the empty pot on the coil to make it hot
So that its copper will become red hot.
Its uncleaness will melt away within and its
Rust will be consumed.

It is frustrating and exhausting
For the heavy rust will not come off.
Throw it into the fire with its rust!
Your uncleanness was due to your obscene conduct.
I tried to cleanse you, but you would not become
Clean from your uncleaness.
You will not become clean until my rage against you subside.