I start crying
drive-way lying on friday afternoon.
Raining midway into a hot summer day,
steaming from the heated pavement,
a dirty soul dissolves away,
leaving behind a skinless man;
beauty only seen from heaven.
Tears from the promised land
fall into my eye
leaving insight to his grace;
a glance at his holy face
and love calling me to die.
Shall I take this call
or wait and see
deaths descend from ill conceit?
And what do I do now
that I’m starting all over?
Do I give up my lover?
Am I expected to bow
to his holy reverence;
thank him for my severance
from the secular world;
this command to be his herald?
How can I pray
when what I want to say,
he knows?
Where’s the use of trying
if my trying can only fail?
And why, because of three nails
i cannot fail,
and I’m the one he chose
to show his scars?