Revelation: three, seven – the Kingdom of Heaven
The key to unlocking both glory and shame.
Philadelphia knows He’s arriving in newness
inscribing on foreheads His city and name.
(Though it could be on tee shirts or baseball caps, true –
unless someone takes time to decipher the text…
is it Greek? Aramaic? Amharic? What next?)
Don’t be mad – it’s not me but old John who’s to blame.
Of names and on numbers of Savior and Beast
I have long been a-pondering, trembling, wondering
mushroom-cloud raptures in mind’s eye a-thundering.
How will we get to that marriage-day feast?
Will my garment be ready or filthy with fall-out?
(The song says His blood will make clean if we call out
in faith for forgiveness, in humble repentance
believing that grace will abolish the sentence.)
You may wish my rhyme to be likewise abolished.
Bear with me. Forgive me, I grant it’s not polished.
I speak what I feel and I write when I’m able;
which brings us to heavenly thoughts gastronomic:
what dishes we’ll meet as we dine at that table-
strict Jewish? Angelic? Or pre-Abrahamic?
Shall they serve us from silver or common ceramic?
Being clay to the potter, an unfinished vessel
I leave all these questions for others to wrestle.
Yet there’s still one more realm I explore in conjecture:
the sounds at that gathering. Classical? Rock?
Unending revivalist Christian refrains?
Shall we headbang in heaven with glorified brains?
Psychedelic/Psychotic…? or Handel and Bach?
(Lighten up. It’s the end of my bible-school lecture.
You’ve seen a few rooms of my castle-in-air,
and we ALL know it’s reggae they’re playing up there…)
Sitting in de street
Spitting out a reggae beat
Rollin up a sticky spliff
Jammin out a reggae riff
JAH knows I take the fattest hit
"Damn this reefer is strong as shit!"
I see a glint in the eye of a guy
On de street, just passin by
He flicks some cash in me cup, and I begin to smile;
For in my heart of hearts I know, he feels my reggae style
I toiled then in Babylon
with a suit and black tie on
I forgot who it was that I called on
JAH the one true lord of love
Sits on HIS throne high up above
HE sent to me a holy dove
in its talons
I had not smoked since that night
The sight of it gave me a fright
but from the sky, a holy light!
A fatherly voice came down from a cloud
"Son this kush is hella loud
Smoke it well, and make me proud!"
so I packed a bowl
The power of kush, it lifted me
This powerful plant HE gifted me
It mended that old rift in me
and I once again, was reggae.
Puffing from de chalice
I breathe the holy smoke
In JAH there is no malice
HE gives me only hope
I once was lost
Like an island boy at sea
I once was blind
But through HIM, I now do see
Yes, I was a bald head
Working for the man
But when my locks grew thick with dread
I saw the lord JAH's plan
HE set for me a holy task
and gave me herb to smoke
Within HIS holy light I bask
from HIS bush I toke
To spread HIS love across the earth
that is my only joy
and once HIS love encircles its girth
will I cry tears of soy.
bout tree years ago
me planted me seed in me wife
me wife looked like a a tird babylon
had grown on er tomach
bout a year ago
she shit out a rastafarian mon
and de babylon disapeared
me say me tink es ugly
how should me give em away
me tink me give em back to jah
me gona leave im in da cah
and bake em like da ganga
ee almost went back to jah
me wife say wat was u tinkin
me say me didnt no
she say how me be so dum
me say me smoke a ton
she say ow much is dat
me say it be alot
she say ow much is alot
"like, dis much"
(me old out me hands to show)
me wish me wasnt a trucker
me wish me had 5 foot dreads
me ave to act like a trucker
and pucker me lips for me wife
me wish me was on de island
where all de noises is silent
we wish me could dig for diamonds
and smoke all de ganga me wish
and eat dead fish of de road
be broke like a true reggae mon
me wish me was never born
because me never gona be a reggae boy
me hart is as torn as me cloth.
me want to love a reggae woman
and implant me reggae seed.
and grow me some reggae children
and show dem da way of de ganga
me lungs aint pure wit out ganga
me mind aint pure wit out rasta
who be in my basement?
da rasta mon who stole me bank statement.
why he steal me bank statement
only jah will know.
me tird leg ain pure wit out soap
me arm peets aint pure wit out soap
soap is da purest
jah supply us wit soap
tank u jah
we like da soap u supply
we do not deny
here id de reggae household