Am I not my Father’s son,
who too, touched sky and stars
and sat atop moons gawking at the
world’s birthright that tomorrow
would be his if he had only
asked?

Am I not He, who walked too
upside down shrubs, and skies,
and bushels of wood and fire and
swam through soil, digging through
water, marvelling at the glorious
ruin of His creation, how he’d
one day bring it towards light
again?

Am I not He, too of Joseph,
father of dreamers, closing
his eyes and feeling stars crackle
beneath his feet despite the Earth
burrowing his neck further beneath
desert?

Am I not He, son, of Solomon,
who worshipped in temples of gold,
robed in purple and gifted with
brilliance -  made to plot, sow
stitch and reap the fruits
of fragment kingdoms at sceptre’s
will?

Am I not He, Son of God,
nailed to crosses and sprung from
stone graves, body light as air,
heart white as snow, skin
made to glow glorious, guiding
those who wished only to see,
blinding those who thought nothing
of sight?

Am I not He, God, Your son,
who was knit bones at your
suggestion, made to stitch soul
to flesh, knelt as your soldier,
became one amongst they:
ruinous, crumbling, blinded, they,
split, and crooked, and
broken?

Am I not of You, God?
Am I not You, God?

Am I not, God?