Endlessly, relentlessly, you make haste by unbroken parable, cry incense incensed, censure me, call names of the unjust, we’re unjust, there’s unbroken like fish and bread in multitudes, swing low and wide on fingertips that have never known bare skin the way I have known yours, chariots lost on pharoah’s feet and dying prodigals covering little ground.
Calling him, you came like waves on shore parting for boat hulls, licking up starboard side thirsty for purpose, raising church in three days making metaphor into matter, I met you halfway, holding staff still dripping crimson on toes that hadn’t yet touched the sea. We made miracles.
I’ve yet to find contentment among tents pitched forty days ago, dusted in sugar burning tongues too used to manna, leaning ‘against winds that whisper designs o'er mount Sinai, whisper Pontius Pilate condemnation, whisper platitudes Peter proclaimed before **** crowed thrice. Crucify us. We don’t dare step down. Raise us. We’ve yet to sin.