Breathless in the Valley

When is Ezekiel coming, God?

I feel like I've been waiting in this valley, 

A pile of dried out bones, for years. 

But it's one thing to resurrect a body, 

Still covered in skin and full of guts;

It's something else entirely 

To turn a pile of dry bones

Back into a human being. 

Who were these bones before? 

Who did they become after? 

Were they soldiers from a battle?

Both sides standing up together,

Filled with your breath 

After taking it away from each other? 

Were they innocents slaughtered? 

Were they criminals condemned?

Were they "your" people, 

Who believed the right things,

Said the right words,

And made the appropriate sacrifices? 

Or were they just people

You decided deserved a second chance? 

The bones rattled and flew back together, 

Covered in muscles that had never moved

And skin that had never before

Felt the warmth of the sun. 

Did you cover them with clothes, too?

Probably not.

The God who commanded Isaiah

To preach naked for years

Isn't overly concerned about propriety.

They stood up, but the work wasn't done;

You asked Ezekiel to participate.

You invited him to be a part

Of something miraculous.

But where is my Ezekiel?

Do I need to prophesy my own breath up? 

Or should I just keep waiting, 

Dry and dead, 

Hoping you are coming to this valley.