Precious cargo

Precious cargo

Read it until it sings in your veins!
You said of God Speaks.

All remembrance should be like that --
vascular, in the marrow; a deep

and irresistible recognition; a light
dispelling the shadows

in which incredulity and indifference breeds,
reestablishing our ancient-most

connection with reality;
. . . until it sings in your veins!

On the practical side, it should be sturdy
and lightweight, wieldy -- a convenient apparatus

for exposing and relinquishing
the temporal and the illusory;

unable to grasp our intended
distractions and indulgences,

finding our hands (heads, throats)
ever full and otherwise occupied

by a pure and most precious cargo --
Your name, Your image, Your presence

O child of God, Remember Me is a question.
Search your innermost depths to find the answer.

                        

Truth be told

Truth be told

Truth be told, my Master was silent.
Truth be told, silence was the essence

of His message.  O, He promised
on numerous occasions to speak

the Word of words -- some forty-odd years 
but nary a word He left us -- no goodbye,

no parting wisdom, trading one silence for another.
Such is our dilemma, o lovers, in telling others

of His silence and His broken promises,
of our fascination with the One

Who refused to be glib, pedantic,
predictable in the Truth; Who spoke

somehow beyond throat and ear, beyond
forced and roughly shaped sounds.

I suggest we must, in the end, 
resort to our own brand of silence

and pray Truth be told, His Truth --
in all its palpable, wordless splendor --

be told, be told, be told within each
God-conscripted, fatefully chosen breast.

O child of God, your job is to love Him.
His job is everything else.