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.