I came across Christ in a recurring dream
of descent, vivacity and evanescence;
stripped of scriptural restraints;
uplifted in outstretched, agonized triumph.
In spiritual flight, I came across Christ,
double-crossed the stone sepulcher;
came across death, across Truth
in a walkabout that led to Jesus in India,
thousands of years from the sophistry,
the accumulated errors, the calcified ruins.
I came across Christ, the palpable
flesh and blood, hanged from a cross
of the Carpenter's own making,
in His own chest and mine;
His silent returning, His timely, masterful,
merciful descent, the ethereal made extant
in the milieu of our latest,
chronic human lunacy and despair.
O child of God, follow the ancient thread that runs
from Zoroaster's kushti to the sadra of Meher.