Upon spoken word—to unleash heaven—to subdue hell.
“I am exulted for Love.”
I would add—fear, a need, designed to pine for You.
A man died loving You. I presume he won You.
“Souls are repaid by their very hands, their deeds, aligned by mercy.
I first died that I Am!”
Inside lives a bullhorn, a phone, an abstract answering machine.
“I have spoken to you.”
I wasn’t listening. Now that I do: You stand aloof.
Vindicated, it would assume, still faced by privilege, still wresting phantoms.
“You were delivered.”
You were worshiped.
Your name never shall perish.
Even sin in with Your honor.
We shared bread. We drank wine. Have You
partaken of Yourself?
“Your despair is with you: Would you contend
with Creation?”
I would ask as downtrodden, so disturbed
in me: Why hath I little understanding?
Why would You give me darkness?
Why are we downcast—Why do we wail
In Psalms?
A song, Father! An endless song! What is
its motive?
Why have You saved me? to make of soul
a byword?
Who is this woman? Is she a child of yours?
Why have we crossed paths? What is the
mystery?
So stirred, hand & pen, art, soul, spirit &
arc—Oh’ Deliverer, companion of us both:
Will You watch it?
Winds ruffle. Tumbleweed dances. Joy
seems to come by repercussion.
And into a space, aloes, cassia, digging into self, myrrh, & Caleb, his spirit.
“You have us.” Who is she? I sense antiquity. “You mind you, & I will mind you both.”
If pride is taken into it, if great joy is rendered, shall we be punished?
“What is written?”
