I wrote it today, It'd be great to know your thoughts
In the middle of the night the bats screech:
Father! Moans the mountains, hills, gardens;
groans echo between canyons and crevasses like
friends exchanging intimate whispers during
a lecture, whispering for restoration, for paradise,
lost to us, lost by us, as John Milton put it, but;
glimmering through the cracks of the
imago dei,
yes, through the visible remnant of the
ex nihillo, we look
intently as the land opens wide to “destroy those
who destroy it.” Sob. Sob. Sob. Sobs, whimpers, glistening
tears fall like parachuting elephants gathered
by the delicate wrists of seraphim, children for
adoption— adults will have none of them. Sob. Sob. Sob.
Sobs found splatter painted over the bodies of the dead in
Darfur, decapitated remnants of a lovers love for
her. Sob. Sob. Sob. Sobs from the followers of William Wallace
as the icon against tyranny is tortured,
FREEDOM!!! He cries and his brave heart dies.
Sobs for the golden age fall from stricken eyes.
Sob. Sob. Sob. Sobs sting, trickle, down her pale face
Mary’s son buried in disgrace, disenfranchised
political zealots, tax collectors, pious people,
fishermen, all disciples
on a 3 and a half year internship made
miracle working emissaries of this supposed Heir
who forsook earthly vocation in search of something better:
Sob. Sob. Sob. Wanting a new creation.
Like we’re pregnant because our sufferings have filled up—
Like the 11th hour is an eternity—
Like gasping for a bubble of breath within this casket—
Like hoping against hope—
Like shaking hands with a sailor off to a journey—
Like we need something more than what our tongues are tasting.—
Like vagabond vigilantes with want for a day of reckoning—
Like nuclear fallout would be bathed in if it meant it would speed up this rescue—
Like Judas would attempt C-section if it meant the millennium to him—
Like we bellow through Jesus’ lone howl “Eli Eli, Lama Sabachthani!”
“My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me!”
And “why art thou so far from helping me, and from the words
of my roaring”
And “I am poured out like water”
And “deliver my soul from the sword,
my darling, from the power of the dog.”
We are trying to see the sunshine through this fog.
Cry. Cry. Cry. Cries of relief. This our ears
long, lust, pant after. When the sobs are wiped away
from every eye and the glory of the earth matches the
glory in the sky, when heaven and earth lock lips
and we are playing in the saliva of their tongues,
when this rescue is totally accomplished and their
is no need for guns. Cries
of love, goodness, purity, satisfaction
we desire, so:
let us put our hands to the plow.
In hope let us not forsake hope
that hoping and groping might be
seeing and holding
shortly
so:
when torn whether to sob or to cry,
cry in expectation!
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