We are seven.
Half the number at the Last Supper.
Fewer than the Commandments
One for each of the Deadly Sins
Seven who sit in Judgement,
weighing not the individual soul,
But the collective worth of humankind.
Despite our numbers,
we span the globe.
The squalling infant in a dusty summer field
the teenage misfit braving the stares
and the old woman with blue veined hands endlessly toiling .
Young and old; poor and rich,
the downtrodden, the triumphant;
the peasant and the king.
We drift through life,
measuring the immeasurable.
A kindness here; a harsh word there.
We hear the crunch of bone; the whisper of comfort.
Our faith abides
under star, cross, crescent
and no banner at all.
We see behind closed doors,
dark sunglasses and floor length veils.
Yet we can do nothing
but watch
a single drop of kindness
ripple through the oceans
and lap at every shore.
Give us what we need.
Fill the drying well.
He is the judge
but we are the jury.
For we are you
and when we lose hope.
All is lost.
