Beside the shadow of a frozen chapel, under the marriage of the cross and crown, outside the privilege of the “chosen ones” the Image of God is sleeping on the ground.
Spires pierce the sky like steel through your hands, planks from our eyes plunged in your side. Water poured out, but we want wine. You said, “Take and remember” but we always forget.
To the outcast sons, to the sojourners - descendants of loss.
I’ll hold my breath until you can breathe. To truly live I must begin anew and be consumed. Make a heart of flesh from these hollow stones. I’m learning what it means to trade my certainty for awe.
When you fell to your knees to wash my feet did you see the trampled shadows stained underneath? Did you hear the acrimony, perpetuated by the puppet sewn to the pulpit? We forgot your life and become a people of death: Spell-bound by the celibate spectacle, inhabiting mausoleums.
We are the eulogy at the funeral of God.
To the outcast sons, to the sojourners - descendants of loss: Be consumed. I’ll hold my breath. To truly live we must begin anew.
