The Eleventh Plague: Sephorah

Stronger and safer than on my wooden will,
I rely on your silent sacrifice, Sephorah,
You, the most unhealed of all my wounds
That pains me most when the others are silent.

Long has been the road, Sephorah, far too long,
Full of turns and ambushes that delayed my purpose,
Even though I knew that only children expect instant victory
And that all the prophets of old were marching through me.

But long roads never end, Sephorah,
My staff and my faith were too small: only to the Lord does its own self suffice.
I needed more love than understanding,
And then you came, with your body enwrapped in spirit.

I loved only the purpose and thus the people did not love me, Sephorah,
Filled with poison, the cup in your fair hands
And yet, despair is a virtue and joy is a sin,
Whereas events live less than people.

When you teach someone, they pay you, Sephorah,
When you teach all, you must pay yourself.

It is both beautiful and hard to be the wife of a prophet,
My Sephorah