David
 
 My son: the folk proclaimed him king,
 with loud hosannas made their cry
 and all their oaths they did him bring--
 and who knows more than you or I
 how little worthy are such things
 that change as fast as blink an eye?
 Hung on a tree and struggling,
 pierced through the side, did my son die.
 
 O Lord, my God, how great your name,
 the might by which you make it known.
 The nations cower in their shame
 that dared to move against your own.
 No matter, Lord, how deep my pain,
 I kneel before the things you've shown
 and hold what prophecies proclaim:
 My son will sit upon my throne.
  
 I have more sons, but none to me
 as beautiful as Absalom.
 I have more wives and sons-to-be;
 I have all things excepting balm
 to soothe a wound that none can see.
 Accept then, Lord, this wailing psalm:
 With my son dying on a tree,
 how can his endless kingdom come? 

Bathsheba

 The silent house, the still heat of the day,
 the rooftop safety, free from prying eyes:
 All these were false, but then I had no way
 to know the sure from mere safe-seeming lies.
  
 I learned it soon: the secret passages,
 the servants' downcast eyes, the hidden rooms
 softened with scented smoke and tapestries
 where flesh awhile forgets it's meant for tombs,
 
 the whispered messages and subterfuge,
 the funeral and the wedding, feast on feast,
 the child, the interest waning, kohl and rouge
 to see that he would keep one vow, at least,
  
 and set our son securely on this throne.
 To know, at last, a truth that will not fade
 (as beauty and his love left me alone):
 It is enough, the gift for which I prayed.