The divine gave the birth certificate of an angel to my veins
When the redness of Lamb's blood wrote on the walls of my heart.
It was on the finger of the Most High.
The doctors murmured I had to be cut out.
They pointed to me in the ultrasound and said to the surgeon: Cut it out.
Because otherwise the suspense of the womb would unborn me dead.
They say what the Lord gives He takes away
The doctors determined the only thing a normal birth could give
Would be to take me from myself
So that only a headstone would remain.
That stone would not cry out
But be silent, forever
The only place my name would appear
Would be in tearful sighs
And marked stones.

But imagine if that name was a question
That only worship could answer
The finger of the Lord scribbled Michael
Because He heard that cry.
Imagine that my other name was a statement that hoped I would live.
That prayed I would count as belonging to the land of the living.
Have strength like a rock
And not just a name on a stone.
The finger of the Lord etched Binka.
On the wall of a heart
That was made of living, precious stones.

God said I will redeem your hope.
So that when I was held
It was the first time since the beginning
I did not face the option of being disembodied
Now I had to be strength embodied
I would not ever have to claw myself back into the womb
Because I always climbed out into life
And now there is no turning back.