II would excavate the sky of cloudsto know You, Yahweh. Yahweh,my nails are black with soil;I am rummaging for Your holy light.Yahweh, thunder, storm-deity,I no longer fear You. I have spokenthe unspeakable name: Yahweh. IIOnce, You placed sweet thornsin my leg and in my grointo make me weak, to bring menear to You. Now, as an open fridgein an abandoned lot,my earth is empty of Your Spirit. Now,Your silence is absurd as wreckageand my body is empty of Your Spirit. IIIEach morning, I rise likethe wrestling Jacob, runningthrough parking lots. I pray,â€śBreak-open my counting brain;make me Your Holiest fool.What blessed psych wardmust they leadeth me to . . .â€ť IVAquinas, broken, in the Lux Aeterna;Blake seeing God through his window;Ginsberg in his East Village flat,trapping the Archangel of the Soul.I walk into my future; no vision in my pocket. VBut this winter night, my feet touchchilled cement in honorof firm gravity. Near the porch,a girl invites me to the economyof tenderness. I run a bath wheredreams rise like lavender steamabove my skull. In my room,I punch in letters, mixing wordsto bring out sparks. And it is You, Yahweh.
Mary Louise Bringle on hymnals and why they matter, Philip Jenkins on the Waco siege, David Hollinger on Elesha Coffman's book about the Century.
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