The Hour Shall Pass Poem by Martin Ward

He was about the same age
as my son: a boy,
caught up
in the conflict
of an African
war zone.

Somehow, the TV camera
had captured
the moment
of his death.

He had incurred
a fatal head wound
some time earlier.

Cradled in someone's arms,
he awaited the moment.

Snared in a circumstance
beyond his making;
and in a situation
out of human control,
he waits. His eyes tell
of a knowledge
being gained
before us.

His time had come:
too early, but yet his time.

As his eyes told me
that the Passover
had arrived,
I prayed,
as Christ
had prayed
upon the cross,
that for him,
the hour shall pass.