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
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.
We don’t dare step down.
We’ve yet to sin.