I hear their call rise up—it fills my ears—
A king! A king! they shout. My beard is long,
my hair is sparse, and death will come for me
—I’ve been a prophet from my childhood
to these people—I’m Israel’s final judge.
Hereafter there shall be a king, and he
will own your land, he’ll have your sons, he’ll take
your daughters too. And now I see the end:
Did we not have a king? Did God not rule?
O Ichabod! How true your name. Your birth
foreshadows all our future history.
And whom have we rejected but our God?
Rough Draft | Poem: Why Do We Clamor for a King
Tale Told 