Joan of Arc

Father, forgive them.
See the trembling eyes of the soldier clutching the torch,
his hands quivering not from faith but from fear.
He whispers prayers he does not believe,
as if the flame can cleanse his doubt.

Following the voice of the Father,

in a woman’s body, 

carried France from its peril.

With hands they called too soft for swords,

I held the weight of a nation.

With a voice they deemed too fragile for command,

I spoke fire into the hearts of men.

Yet now, these same hands are bound,

these same lips are silenced.

Tell me, Father, 

is this the price of salvation,

or the cost of being born a woman? 

Once shielded by the Father’s hand,

arrows and spears turned away,

as if death itself had been delayed,

I stand here today to die,
for the same reason the Father’s Son
was nailed to the cross.

As the Son brought salvation to all,

let my fire be a beacon,
a flame that lights the path
for the women yet to come—
those who will rise, unbroken,
to finish what I began.