my heart cries out to you,
YAH!
the ancient living One!
the One in whom there is no deceit!
the greatest Judge,
Father-friend!
my particles long for friendly fire,
long to be destroyed by love
heavier than galaxies,
presence from millennia ago,
yet fresh as a mother’s milk.
Holy Christ,
do I,
a dog,
dare lick the blood
from your wounds,
and this to my own benefit?
how can I,
dead somehow living,
be given the chalice of divine mercy,
and manna of heaven,
formed and baked by the very hands of God?
I am Jacob,
wandering into sleeping rock,
a place to finally lay my head,
Christ’s body itself,
his leadership a ladder into
the very heaven of God,
where YAH sits enthroned.
glory begets glory!
gold is but dust here.
have I,
with stammering tongue
and blood-stained hands,
wandered into the holy ground of God,
all-consuming Spirit-fire,
the Mouth of God,
devouring bush (man),
yet ensuring every single one
of his leaves remains unsinged,
unhurt by your awful presence?
Holy God,
I fear I may have mistaken
you for another.
like the dawn gets called the morning,
the pasture the field,
the hill the mountain,
so I too called the thought of you,
the feeling of you,
the knowledge of you,
as if it were really you.
yet deep knows deep,
and ponds have nothing in common with oceans.
so your face escapes me.
like the dog-woman who fed
from crumbs beneath your feet,
grant me just a crumb
from the bread of divine revelation,
just a speck of matter
from the meal of divine understanding,
the food which spirits and angels eat of
every day.
give this dog just a crumb,
Master.
I grovel and growl beneath the table,
waiting.
dogs cannot sit at tables with children.
they must wait.
they must beg.
but the children eat freely.
the unworthy wanderer 