The Bell and Gorecki
Reprisal; I struggle to find one tonight
and emptied out of my selfishness, feel pity
only pity. and a smear of self-loathing
brush strokes across this canvas
a million points and strokes,
twenty five years of this thorn!
I wish my malaise were outward
instead of this inward
that I had leprosy, and decaying,
would walk amongst you all with a bell
welded 'round my neck
A chanson of elegy 'unclean, unclean!'
The Son of Man descended below all
am I greater than He? Nay, never! Nay~
yet this stone of years,
this great miller's masonry
these comminutes wear at my soul.
Paul too, had a hidden thorn
One that God only knew
The woman with an issue of blood
the Bible is rife with example
and life is rife~
I've not lost a limb to landmine
nor been gassed in a chamber
Or my little ones torn away.
Why then this pain at these pains?
Boo! I would shoo the demon I feel lurking
had I any compulsory power
his flitting shadows which darken my light
darken my glass.
When will I see face to face?
what day my sadness transmogrified?
If Christ unwrapped the shroud
rolled back the stone
then so should I, at least try to emulate
Despite the fact that he knows every tomfoolery of mine
every wound implicitly,
He's felt each muttered curse, each selfish sneak,
the ill stench from the midden pile of my life
full in his nose when he faced the garden,
the lash, the thorn, the cross.
How could He bear it?
He bore it without reprisal.
Speaking nothing, except for others
'Mother, behold thy son' and 'Father forgive them'
How I would have worn my voice away in curses at those Centurions!
railing out in my anger that they could not defeat me
That I would be dead but awaiting in Elysium
with a gladius in hand to administer their second death!
Christ changed all that, took all the ills
the bloodletting, the whoredoms, the deceit
He took it all
bore a weight greater than that atlas could ever tire of
shouldering these finite squabblings from finite menin His infinity;
these pains counted down to the mite~
and changing the brush strokes, ever so subtly
turning the sin He bought and knew to His bones,
into a masterpiece
That leper's bell thrown unneeded to the dust!
That hem for my issue of blood to be healed!
Those forceps for this thorn to be pulled!
This roof thus opened, and I let down into His midst!
Those demons commanded to swine and the sea! and
This garden to plant a mustard seed.