The Beloved
Mute,
I was led like a lamb to the slaughter-
And
the same was done to my daughter.
I
was slain of love before there was a world,
When
I slept dreaming in the bosom of the Father.
We
went together over the light and living things
That
would spring up from this,
our
mutual delight
overflowing
the cup,
poured
out upon the harrowed world
We
already fully knew
And
loved,
Even
in the pain of freedom’s full expression.
So
my own, my beaten and bloodied son-
Come
out, come here-
lying
wounded, naked upon the road,
pushed
to the side,
passed
by,
unclean,
unclaimed-
You
are mine.
I
will wear your wounds.
I
stretched forth my two bright, unbroken hands
And
interwoven, the world, the words, fell out between
And
time began
spun
into present being.
The
precious and the small that I loved, the drops of
Spray
upon the back of the beasts and the crawling things
Unfurling
gossamer wings and seeds each to their kind
And
a boundary where the sea shall not pass.
And
it was good but divided:
the
dark from the light,
the
waters above from the waters below,
held
back for some future purpose.
Our
longing brought us down to the dust
We
pressed our mouth to the tender soil
and
breathed our children into flame.
In
the beginning, they would come to us.
The Audience
We
came out from insufferable freedom,
barring
the gate to that unspeakable garden.
We
cannot be naked, undefended
tasting
everything but
of
good or evil knowing nothing.
Let
us make god in our own image.
Let
us circle god with the spinning mechanical angels
Whose
rimmed unblinking eyes will count out
All
our many offensives continually
And
he will wage war for us
Upon
those white and pestilent horses.
We
will build a tower to divide
The
lower to build, the higher to see
And
god on top, where the prophets speak
In
the seventh story room.
And
the banner of god will be
White
and gold and red as blood,
Marching
as an infantry.
Let
them make the bricks now,
Let
the starving ones press them into mold,
One
after another after another
And
all for the glorious city of god.
Hand
me the iron pen and the whitened skin
And
I will write this script into stone.
The Girl
I
woke with the taste of grapes in my mouth
I
had been dreaming of something-
The
iron creaking of the swing set
The
slam of the screen door
I
woke and it was gone.
I
was called up those tower stairs,
past
all those pictures of the starving saints murdered before me
past
all those poor lambs called up to heaven on the treadmill
and
that starred lady giving birth before the dragon,
pregnant
repugnant
terrible,
bright and shining,
marching
on before
I
rose in the crowd to clap my hands for the Prophet
And
all his holy gods.
Hosanna!
Said the crumbling cornerstone
Where
I fell and hit my head trying to see in
All
the precious stones had been pried out
Years
ago.
Like
bullet holes in holy places, where the Prophet
paced
threadbare the boards and
the
bed where he lay him down to sleep tonight,
under
the seven story room where the faithful
prayed
all day and night-
Deliver
us, O lord, from your great and terrible might!
I
went up the stairs and up the stairs and up the stairs
into the holy room
And
stood before the banister that looked down over
those
rows of souls who’d bowed their head before
The
almighty warriors of prayer,
Blue-bound,
red
letter
up
to the standard
Sending
god himself out
To
wrestle with the wily devil in his stony strongholds
Amen!
They cried and again they cried amen.
And
all the women wept and raised up holy hands and hide your head
For
fear of those dreadful angels they can’t see through the lace
The
holes there that hold in your head.
And
the grit that hurts your knees as you bow down, bow down
Before
that holy warfare they wrestle with, red faced and sweating
And
shouting out the devil’s name
In
some far off, dark powerful place that is between the plastic seats
And
the white globed lights in the ceiling
Counted out in hours of boredom
Between
the air you breathe and the room pressing down
And
the sharp stones of the building cut into shape-
Like
warriors trampling down the vineyards
The
sweet, tender vineyard, the little grapes and the foxes
That
peak through the leaves, the little foxes
Underneath
the hooves of those terrible white horses
All
cut to pieces and flayed apart and hung on the wall of those stairs
That
I went up and up into the airs of that place
that
breathed down through
those
bullet holes like tongues of light that shine down through
those
stones pressing down like one great stone
a
gravestone
throw
the starving under sea to lie down
and
take it.
The
Beloved
In
the beginning, my lover was taught the law
Precept
upon precept
line
after line
Following
her unmerciful tutor.
But
as she grew older, I coaxed her closer
And
leaning over, I whispered her name.
Passing
over the tender grass
I
rose up in the wind and kissed her wondering mouth.
She
didn’t know it was me, but she turned to follow after.
My
lover, she woke one morning to the black trees
Streaming
past the blurred window and
Knew
the emptiness in her heart
One
she thought would take her straight
To
hell if she didn't repent.
Though
I rode beside her on the jolting seat,
She
saw me through the white bound window
Of
her child’s bible
Too
tender to be real, too vague for everyday use.
So
she climbed the tower to make amends
Seven
stories she stepped up
The
creaking wood, crying out
The
pain of their history worn into them.
She
evoked all the deepest magic she knew,
She
called up all the sacred words
Over
and over she flipped through the dry
Sheaves,
underlining, whispering
Searching
for me in the numbered verses.
But
I waited.
I
waited for the silence to rise up-
And
the words fell away.
She
stood before
The
bared and wounded plain of her soul
The
emptiness more terrifying to her than hell.
Crippled,
she bent forward on the spindled chair
And
cried out to me without official form
Without
disguise, without sanction,
Or correct
interpretation.
And
bending over her with wings of fire,
I
poured out to her
Love
like
honeyed oil that ran down
All
her hair, soothing her burning eyes
And
running down to fingertips and toes
Overflowing
her soul,
Tipping
her small scales over
into
uncontainable
Joy.
Free,
she
went running down
Her
feet only skimming
the steps
And
burst out into the
newly
made night,
laid
with dew,
canopied
in shadow
and
spinning around her.
She
danced with me for one hour
Then she put me away,
Respectfully
releasing me
For
the more pressing and important duties
She
imagined must be waiting.
I
let her sleep a little while longer.
Thereafter,
she knew two gods.
In
her youth, my lover stood before
The
congregation
Their
hungry eyes bright, they watched her stumble.
Drawn up,
because she could not undo that tie that bound us together.
She
gave herself over to a father I did not know,
Faithful
to her faulty teaching
Seeing
me between the lines.
She
was afraid, but she called out my name
And
pulled me down
Face
to face with her.
Her
throat moving under the light,
lifted,
bared-
I
poured into her and caused her
To
speak the words that I was speaking to her.
We
heard and spoke them together.
She
loved me with all her heart and soul and strength
And
she gave herself over to the monster that drove
Her
with cords of anger,
Stripping
flesh from spirit
Bleaching
out the soul and
Leaving
her bones tied
together
with printed paper.
And
all this, I suffered with her, until she fell so far
That
false god wouldn’t claim her.
I
caught her.
The Girl
I
woke with the taste of wind in my mouth.
Each
step my own bone,
Feeling
with my hands
As
I climbed higher.
Beloved
bricks,
Formed
with the palms of my hands,
Pressed
down
The
mortar beaten,
Pressed
down
Laid each upon the other
Pressed
down
and
slit open on the alter.
So
close to this cannibal god
with
the blinding teeth
his
bloodied, unbearable hands
reaching,
passing his children through
the fire.
I
stumbled and everything came falling with me,
Every
alter I had set up-
Pretty
little virgin vanities,
Lovely
trinkets whispering around the mirror
Petty
vows spoken hollowly,
Snap
shot pictures, paper charts,
Simple
mysteries and prayer lists
Like
grocery receipts
All
stuffed in satin lined boxes
Of
my surface childhood.
The
unbroken skin,
The
ivory tower
The
white neck
That
god wanted
Behind
glass.
It
came down in a shower of bone shards
And
glitter.
The pigs rooted through it, where I lay
Where
I found myself when I woke up
a backslider,
such a crushing disappointment
such a waste
such a weak girl after all-
to wake
up, throw up in that black painted room
With
the velvet painting.
What’s
your name, little girl,
What’s
your name?
But
I didn’t know.
He
taught me some bitter words, that first husband,
Who
incarcerated shame
Into
my own flesh and bones
That
wouldn’t take him in.
It
was all my fault.
And
that first god had vomited me out, my pass key wouldn’t
Work
My
vagina was shut down, closed down for
Bad
business and without that
Little
flap of skin
God
couldn’t see me,
I’d
slipped under the holy radar
Unwanted,
unwrapped
It
didn’t matter it was a marriage license he took me under
It
was wrong, all wrong and now I was
The
poked chocolate in the box someone found but
There was no cherry.
I
was unripe like small potatoes,
Crying
in that attic room, screaming out without my voice
To
get off me stop that right now I can’t take
One
more blinding awful
minute
But
I took it and I took it and I took it
Silently,
as I should,
Was
taught to
Yield
to
Pain.
The Audience
Let
us lead the virgins out one by one
For
sale.
Come
on girls, come on out,
In
pretty little shirts and skirts.
Who
is the highest bidder here?
Who
has won the right to claim their bride
By
upright study and the prayer of clean hands
A blind white soul and pure sheets-
These
girls don’t come cheap.
You
have to suffer for this marriage
Of
the mind, interlocked, yoked
With
the correct bolts.
It’s
all in the right equipment.
Have
you prayed, have you
Run it by the prophet’s men?
If
not, you’ll watch her hair relax out of curls just out of reach;
Not
yours yet, but if you ask
Very
pretty please
You
might take her out just once
Before
you take stock of all her value,
Off
the open market, where there are no
exchanges
but things do accrue.
Come
girls, back to bed and locked up tight
And
sleep you sweet upon these barren beds
Wait
for another day,
Wait
and wait and wait
And
wait.
Here
is one that fell out the fold, bruised,
Cut
open, revealed.
We’ll
sew a lovely letter upon her dress and
Let
her gingerly among the rest.
But
don’t listen close, her
story’s not for you-
Where
could you put her story?
Your hearts have no pockets.
The Girl
I
woke to the wilderness.
Some
sweepings here, caught up in corners,
Blown
around.
I
had to run after myself, trying to snatch
Something
here and there
Is
an opinion, newly formed and lightly held
And
there
Is
a memory I’ll polish clean.
I
carried a grab bag and sometimes I’d sit down
To
puzzle through it-
Why
this?
god-
him
I put in the back seat, solicitous. I said
Do
unto me what you must but you’re breaking my bones
And
you don’t want me anymore, anyway,
Without
my saccharine, Kool-Aid colored cherry topping
my
black bound rule book.
Let’s
be honest:
You’re
not telling me to go left or right here,
At
the stop sign, where I’m
Constantly
yielding.
I
don’t know which way to go and
You’re
not helping.
Go
tend your lambs, I’ll handle the dogs.
I’m
used to it.
At
the very bottom of the bag I carried with me
Memories
like hope kept in the back of the box,
After
everything else had been let loose.
Sometimes
I turned back and saw Him there,
That
One I couldn’t speak or carve out
Perplexed,
I tried shooing Him away.
“Close
your eyes, You shouldn’t see this,” I told Him,
More
than once.
But
He just kept on following after, showing up
To
the terrible party, closing the doors after the guests had left
And
sweeping up with me,
Sleeping at my side on the floor.
I
said, I’ll never speak a word of this to anyone-
This
grace is too cheap to be believed-
Ridiculous.
Where
His sense of cause and effect?
Why
won’t He
Hit
me?
Sometimes
I would peak out of the lattice of my heart
And
glimpse Him, as I had known Him
And
I knew I was His, through and through
But
I wasn’t living it righteously enough
To
prove it was true.
I
would remember that I had stood before
Heaven
laid open, right through the ceiling
and
felt the eyes of God turn to me
Moved
by me
As
I had been moved by Him, drawn up to stand there
Singing
something I had yet to learn.
So
I made a door to keep Him safe from myself
And
sometimes I would open the door and check on Him.
“I
love You,” I would say. “I’m Your girl,
Your bruised and battered girl.
And
You know the fire of pain that burns at the hinges of my heart.
There’s
no need for us to speak.
But
I can’t come to You just yet.
I
can’t take it.
But
You know where I am.”
And
He would wait!
I
would close the door on Him, and He would wait!
What
manner of God is this?
Whose
image is He making manifest?
This
is an untaught God, older than humanity,
Living,
not written.
His
freedom is dizzying
and born of love and held of love and taught of love
He
knows nothing and can do nothing
but what His loving Father showed Him.
What
father? This Father the created universe cannot possibly contain.
Where
is there room for this love that died
To
be with each of us in our hells
Before
they ever held us in their arms?
The Audience
When
one has fallen, we will mark them off the list.
This
is only fair and fair warning to those who remain
For
the full wages of war.
Things
don’t divide evenly and we make our bread
By
the sweat of our face and we make our bed
To
sleep in it.
If
one falls, the rest circle the wagons and recite
One
hundred and twenty two poems
And
one psalm
The
other books are burned in the bonfire
To
keep us warm.
This
is the way we have always done
And
learned it and we will pass it on to the little ones
Watching,
whipped and learning.
Each
in their place, as god ordained it
The
men to suffer honorably, empty and desperate.
The
women to follow after, silent, serving, both
In
bed and out but never sexuality, that wouldn’t be fit.
But
pleasing yes, in every way, to only one.
To
the rest, she is a snare and must keep her dress loose
Like
a tent to catch the air, for the men’s imaginations
Are
constantly flamed up
At
her expense and so she must beware.
But
also bewitching in bed, by the book:
Here’s
thirty tips and some soothing metaphor.
Have
fun. Not too much. Like that, but not this way.
What
way? Don’t ask me. I don’t have the vocabulary.
But
who could argue with missionaries? That’s all I’m saying.
Listen,
here’s the crux of it:
You’re
meant to be the bride of god
And
he wants a gutted woman,
Scooped
right out and genderless,
Also
with no feeling, certainly no personality,
But
white and gold streaming like scarfs
From
your open, soundless mouth.
No
body, no limbs, nothing but laundered robe,
Starched
stiffened and possibly scented with something
Like
lavender or rose water, but let’s not get carried away.
This
is god’s bride we’re talking about here; perfection,
The
tip top, the best of the best.
A
militant bride, a tramping, sword wielding woman.
The
virgin multitude melted into one faceless mob
Of
righteous white that will
Fall
down slowly out of the sky, all those beautiful buildings
That
god will take in his arms and cherish tenderly.
The
cubic feet, the angled wall,
Here
a window, there a window: precious windows
That
god adores! See how he loves the bricks
And
rocks it close at night.
We
love this city because god loves this city;
We
are this city because we’ve bricked it up
By
every bloody sacrifice of self, by every heart torn
Out
by the roots, by every child laid across our knees
And
beaten, by every desire denied, by every
Emotion
bleached by a life time of holy days
Given
to god and by wearing skirts.
This
is how we know god loves us.
And
when he walks past our empty, mortared form
When
we meet with him at a distance in the gilded temple
And
intone his name,
When
we take our place at the table,
Up
high and close enough to feel
His
hot and holy breath-
It
will all be worth it then-
By
the banks of that golden river, over looking
The
anguish of the fallen, forever heaped outside
The
jacinth gate, their weeping and gnashing of
Teeth
soft music to our meat.
The Girl
I
woke in the garden.
I
had wandered in by accident.
I
thought it was a state park, or
Some
quiet estuary, where the river
Flows
down into something greater
And
mingles in peaceful eddies
Before
being drawn out to deeper
Tides
beyond.
I
said, I’ll sit here a while and
Build
my simple life in the shade of this tree
And
trail my fingers over
This
painted park bench that feels
So
oddly familiar.
For
a long time, I sat there alone-
The
woods were good company.
But
they reminded me-
A
glimpse of something caught long ago,
A
battered postcard of a country
I
thought I had no more hope of reaching.
I
pulled it out and looked at it again.
I
remembered Him.
If
I opened the door, could I live with Him?
I
still carried the tread of the stairs
in
the sturdy muscles of my thighs.
Some
days I still carried the bricks
Around
on my back, the corners
Cutting
even in memory.
So
I tried to find Him in the built
Cathedrals
of contemporary worship,
Sitting
on the thin cushions, listening
To
the ringing of the microphone
In
my ear.
I found Him there, sometimes,
Standing
while the world fell away
But
I was always ashamed of
my
trembling hands, my voice
slightly
off key, lifting, yearning-
too
naked for the church pew.
The
park bench suited me better.
The Beloved
I
looked down, I saw my lover
Sitting
in full flower and wandering
In
search of me.
Coming
close to the door and then
Timidly
back again, her eyes lifting up
Swiftly,
uncertain.
My
heart melted down into rivulets at the sight,
Flooding
the garden with silver pools
And
streams running brightly,
Gilding
all the leaves, running along
The
edge and dropping with a quiet
Music
tapping out the depth of that
Space
under the cedars,
Green
and growing, all tended
By
my hand and called by name
Where
she lived, in the midst of that
Verdant
life, unknowing, seeing me
In
every turn, my handiwork made
For
her to sleep in, one part of
All
that life I loved.
I
saw her
Pressing
her ear to the panels
And
pulling away again, fingertips
Lingering
once
More
leaning in,
Knowing
my name and not finding
Voice
enough to say it.
So
I came down to her.
The Audience
Oh,
let us have fog machines and light shows!
Strike
up the band, the electric guitar
The
wide white windows flickering in their
Passing
images, telling everyone the words
So
no one has to sing their own.
Oh,
bring us skits and plays and coffee bars!
Oh,
let us have missions and money plates
And
lovely drapes and carpets rich and full.
Let
us lift the stage up into higher view our leader
Clearly
now to adore
And
imitate.
Let
us discuss his gestures, inflections, delightful voice
That
shudders through the sound system
And
the clutter of paper programs,
Hopes,
diagrams to God
And
five step programs
And
small, small groups.
Now
everyone come up here and meet with god
Here
on the stairs.
Come
closer, my little lambs,
My
flock, come to the leader now, follow the leader
Now,
he’s pointing to where god stands
Put
two and two together.
You
don’t find him? That’s your fault-
Search
your heart, myopic, look closer
There’s
some stain there, barf it up, bulimic
You
skin and bone believer, scrape yourself
Clean
or god will never sit with you right here
Before
the alter, the polished wooden pulpit
At
the Sunday show.
You
have the wrong spirit, I’ll put my hands
All
over you and shout you clean, you unbeliever!
Come
to god! Come, he loves you,
Come,
he wants to eat you.
He’ll
break your habits off you, do you want success?
Some
money in your back account?
Then
give it to me first,
Or
you’re cursed.
Oh,
I’m sorry, was that cruel?
You
know I love you and all your children-
We
have programs for them too, you know.
Let
us in the room with them.
The Girl
I
woke and He was there.
My
breath caught,
I
couldn’t help it.
He
was standing in the crowd
Of
people looking right through Him,
Demanding
proof
The
righteous mark, the sign and seal.
They
wanted to know who His father was.
“This
man can’t be from god,
The
law has clearly written it-
We
know where this crazy man comes from
and
that’s not it.
Look,
it’s right here in
verse
seventy four.”
They
were looking straight into the face of God
And
didn’t see Him.
God
stood before them in flesh and blood
And
they didn’t know Him.
They
had written the name of God all over them,
But
they couldn’t see Him through the pages
They
adored- oh the pages of life! Oh the word of god,
Sweetly
written on their behalf and interpreted correctly
By
them, for their own sakes.
They
shall go to bed with their interpretation
and
sleep safe tonight.
I was beneath their notice, but I knew Him,
Standing
so still in the midst of them,
I
knew His quiet voice, so certain,
His
love coming out in grief,
The
sadness all through Him.
He
stretched out His hands,
-and
I couldn’t stand it,
I
couldn’t stand there-
I ran right to Him.
And
laughing, He caught me up close in His arms.
I didn’t know if it was
His
voice or mine that was speaking,
Saying
the same thing,
So
softly, over and over.
After
that, He lived with me in the garden.
It
was hard at first,
To
unlearn the religious
Rules
of etiquette
Which
He did not seem
Entirely
interested in.
I
expected Him to dominate,
But
He was always so curious,
Reading
over my shoulder,
Interested,
listening, so ready to speak
Sometimes
I couldn’t believe Him.
“Hush
now, give me a chance to prepare myself
Adequately
to hear Your voice,” I said, once.
But I was just speaking, He pointed out,
puzzled.
When
I went to bed, He lay down with me.
Shocked,
I sat up straight and scolded Him.
“Don’t
You know who You are?” I asked Him.
“Where’s
the proper distance?
Your
spouse is a city.”
Eventually,
I learned to relax into His embrace
And
we stayed up nights, whispering.
He
was full of scars.
The
first time I threw my arms around His back,
I
felt
Gruesome,
inhuman gouges running
Like
ridges all through the flesh
That
couldn’t be real.
I
was plunged into terror at this
Thing
that I held in the dark
Until
I stopped by one thought-
That
He had been scourged by whip laced with iron and bone.
He
had been lashed to the pole and flogged.
It
was scar tissue I’d felt under my fingertips.
I
lay there trembling
In
the arms of the Son of God.
At
first, I tried doing everything
Possible
to please Him,
Resurrecting
bricks and presenting them,
All
dusted off and polished.
Talking
all the time to Him, a constant stream
Of
chatter, hoping the words would hold Him-
Sacrificing
parts of myself, hoping
He’d
like the smell of in the air.
His
response was not always all that I’d expected.
He
took the bricks and looked tenderly at me
Out
of those limpid eyes, so light, laughing, loving
He made garden paths with them, sunk
Into
the earth, where the moss could grow over-
Everything
was damp in that place, running with water.
We
were wet all the time.
He’d
take me on His lap and assure me
It
wasn’t sacrifice He wanted.
He
had to say the same things
again
and again to me.
patiently
explaining
It
wasn’t my behavior that kept Him there,
It
wasn’t my conversation
or
my conviction,
right doctrine
purity rings
or
high investment yields
that
held Him
none
of those things,
nothing
like that-
I
was inherently pleasing to Him,
Because
I was His in the beginning,
His
own creation,
Loved
long before I’d been born.
I
couldn’t do anything to make it
More
or less real, but I could certainly
trip
myself up, trying to unlearn my
first
and most bitter lessons.
When
I bent to worship at His feet,
He
pulled me up into His arms.
When
I hurt myself with harsh judgments,
He
stopped my mouth with His kiss.
When
I passionately declared that
His
glorious robe covered all the earth,
That
He led out the stars with His hand,
He bent and
whispered into my ear-
I am meek and lowly of
heart.
When
I told Him I wasn’t worthy,
He
took my face in His hands and said
That
was His judgment to make.
I
told Him He was the gardener-
He
said, I am your husband.
I
told Him He was my God-
He
said, and you’re My girl.
I
told Him miserably, remember when?
He
said, I don’t.
I
learned to lean into Him all the time
No
matter what came up or how I felt.
It
was like feeling
All
the blood come running
Back
into my hand after
It
had fallen completely asleep,
At
first cold and unwieldy,
Something
not attached to me
And
then
Shocking
almost to the point of pain
And
then warm and nimble,
Full of sensation.
The Beloved
We
played like children in that garden,
Running,
leaping over the streams and
Squatting
down to see something closer,
To
touch lightly before it lifted away
Into
the hazy air falling
Down through bands of gold.
Curled
up, sunk into the moss,
We slept together under
Banks of fern, under the beeches,
The
little foxes peeking out,
Badgers and deer leaping through the shadows,
The
air full of the scent of lilies and lilacs,
Green
grass and slow moving water,
Cinnamon,
saffron and myrrh.
The
stars tilted past
Sometimes
the moon came out and
We
would greet her.
Each
day I taught my lover-
She
was such a quick student,
Tumbling
ahead of her lessons.
Taking
tight hold of my robe
Whenever
something frightened her.
Which
was often, as I unwound
the
layers of lies
That
had constricted her spirit.
Overshadowing
her, I would point out
The
missing piece, the love to which her fear
Had
left her blind.
Her
fear was sometimes so crippling
She
couldn’t even hear,
Her
eyes wide, white and staring.
I
took her in my arms and rocked her,
Singing
to her,
My
voice dissolving that phantom world
Risen
up around her.
She
woke from terror to me.
I put her hand in my scars,
So
she would know
She
had never been alone
In
that tower, trembling under the ceiling
Locked
into law and paying the price.
Just
one lock of her hair, slipping
Over
her shoulder, as she knelt
Unaware
by the river, was enough to
Undo
me.
She
was altogether lovely
I
saw no fault in her.
I
had her dressed in linen,
I
crowned her with grace.
I
tipped her face to mine and kissed her willing mouth.
The Girl
I
woke with the taste of grapes in my mouth,
Sweet,
sun ripened and bloomed over,
And
sticky purple fat figs and red apples
That
hid in the leaves brushed back
In
the groves of that garden where
we played.
One
day our play took us down to that verdant
Edge
where the rooks wheel in the sky
And
the blackberries ripen in great sprays of tangle.
I
paused, lifting up on my toes in the grass,
Caught
by some low, disturbing murmur.
When
He came, I caught hold of Him.
He
let me go down to the edge, leading me
Through
a narrow path, pushing through the briar.
We
stepped out onto a burning plain,
Full
of harried activities, the cries and shouts
Of
labors and whips and chanting,
Scattered
with jagged pieces of broken pottery,
Miserable
huts and windowless houses built
Over
the gutters of the unclean.
I caught up His wounded hand tight
Leaned
in toward Him;
His
face was all lined with sorrow and pain.
“Oh
my sweetheart, who are they?” I whispered.
“And
what are they doing, down there on the plain?"
He
rested his face in my hair,
He
whispered into my ear,
Those are my children.
Go down
And we’ll invite them to
come.
So
I went down among them,
The
dust in my eyes and caking my clothes.
I
knelt by the first person I found.
He
was bone thin and weary and pressing straw into bricks.
He
was weeping, the tears grooved deep
Into
the dust on his face,
And
he ground his teeth in agony as he slaved at his work.
“Why
don’t you come into the garden,” I asked him.
“Come
in out of the sun. Aren’t you thirsty?
There’s
a river there.”
“There?”
he asked, his eyes wide with terror. “I can’t; I’m a dog
And
must press the bricks into mold, for the city of god.”
He
shooed me away and went back to his work.
I
went to the next and she said, “I can’t; I’m a sorceress
And
must press the bricks into mold, for the city of god,
and I won't listen to your heresy."
I
went to the next and he said, “I can’t, I’m an adulterer
And
must press the bricks into mold, for the city of god."
“What
god?” I asked him, in bewilderment.
“Can’t you see He’s right here?”
The
man laughed. “That’s no god.
That
just the Nazarene,
unclean
from touching lepers
beloved
by prostitutes and children.
He’s
nothing but a mad man.”
The
man pointed his dusty finger at the sky.
“God
lives up above, in the holy of holies,
and
we are building a tower to reach him;
the
prophet will interpret his unsearchable will
by
sacrifice and fire
and
we will go to war for him.”
The
next, she sobbed, “I can’t! I can’t! I’m a murderer!”
Her
sobbing shook right through her.
I
put my arm around her shoulders
and bent to her ear.
“So
was I," I whispered.
"I remember that desolation.
But listen!
That isn’t who we really are.
I know where there’s a river-
you can wash off all this dust;
it's hiding who you really are.”
“I
can’t,” she insisted, trembling.
"I can't-
they would never let me in.”
“Those gates are never closed-
Anyone
who thirsts goes through."
She
was confused, but full of hope,
her
callused hands paused in the work.
“But what about this city of god?" she asked.
"What about this tower we’re making to reach him?"
I could clearly see the longing,
Hiding shy behind her fear.
I knew it, because I had once worn it too.
I
leaned in toward her, my eyes lit up
with the pleasure of what I knew.
“Listen, I’ll tell you a secret," I said-
“You
are His city. He lives with you.”
