υιοσ του ανθροπϖσ
ερχου κυριε Ιησου
Son of man
It has been some time
We have stumbled through all the arguments
We have explored all the angles
and counted all the angels
We have sung all the songs
We have painted every setting sun
from every possible perspective
We now call nothing something and something nothing.
A hard rain is going to…
some say the world will end in…
we are tired.
We are still dying too young
We are still living too long
And We have told everyone
And we keep telling ourselves
Rehearsing the glorious beginning
Mourning the tragic flaw
Then rejoicing in the irony. oh sweet irony. the irony age. i suppose began with three
iron nails, hammer and some laughter. then darkness. then light.
Son of man
Son of sam
Son of the poor
Son of the weak
Son of the forgotten and the unseen
Son of the diseased
Son of the stigmatized and polarized and hypnotized
Son of the dry creaking bones
Sleeping on the wet ocean floor
And in cages in the desert.
Son of dust
first born of the dead
for now though
on ‘was ist das’
‘This is me’
thin processed wafers and cheap wine
we cling to words greater than a thousand pictures
a foot in jerusalem here and a foot in jerusalem there.