And we are a rambling caravan of apostles, circus of
disciples that dance across Americana from truck stop
to ghost town, casting out demons, saving lost saints.
The hungry masses thirst for that old time faith, but
find bellyfuls of vinegar and mouths of soap. So we
preach, lift serpents and suffer no bitter poison, faith
heal by laying hands on the suffering, all for an apple's
bite.
Jesus, Mary Magdalene, Peter, John. Our names are unimportant.
We wear Bonnie and Clyde ripped jeans and dusty white, motorcycles
our steeds not unlike donkeys as engines wheeze down the interstate.
Dust bowls dance from Kansas to Oklahoma, backstop recipes on the best
way to burn up sins, little mom and pop convenience stores serving BBQ
that have no idea they are feeding God. Christ blesses the country folk.
Sing, sing hosannas in the summer storm. Get down on your knees and pray.
Pray for the day Michael's boat of deliverance comes, row ashore, Alleluia!
YOU ARE READING
The Diary of Mary Magdalene: Poems from Christ's Wife
PoetryMary Magdalene writes on her love for Christ. And follows him to Hell. And back again. (A collection of poems, prayers, and meditations from the year I walked with the Lord.)
