Honey crisp hearts, beating the drum of a donkey hoof
as a humble carpenter spans millenia of wonder and praise.
He is tan with rough hands from carving wood, eyes
a sparkling green, skin olive as some kind of dappled
shade under a cedar tree, and hair curling brown like
an angel, the Levant complexion of the Son incarnate,
sweat at his brow from the desert, where does he reside,
I wonder? In some starry abode, no, I doubt it, the Lord
walks with the howling lepers, the homeless, desperate
madmen, desolate, casting out demons and bearing witness
to our pain, we talk in the small hours of divinity and Trinity,
long into the evening, a breath like gold across my body,
lips at my hips and thighs delivering me to some higher
power, tasting my flesh as if I am the Sacrament, and then
hands in my hair stroking the gold threads like dragon treasure.
Comfort of a great fire lit in my soul, Christ wraps me in ecstasy.
To make love to God is to be in the Interior Castle of diaphonous
silver, Saint Teresa's cherished vision, dictated 500 years ago
yet the mountain we all climb through inner mansions to the
moon, the sparkling Oneness with God. Gnosis, agape, union.
What is apotheosis but humility in Jesus' lap, suckling at his
blood? I damn all who turn away from love, I damn all who
break lovingkindness and the sacredness of kinship with neighbors.
I lay listening to psalms and parables from Yeshua, my heartbloood
Husband, and I would be a consecrated virgin yet there are monsters
in my heart, but he harrowed Hell, and God loves a trickster, at the
wedding I felt the presence of the Lord as my best friend of twelve years
was blessed in sacred union with the love of his life, the first of our tribe
from high school to be wed in holy matrimony, and it was a ceremony full
of Christ, God, and the Holy Ghost. To think, he has been invoked for two
thousand years by billions of believers, so there is nothing unique about
our courtship, it is simply the journey of the Star to the Soul, climbing the
staircase to Heaven, yet there is God within all of us, and such great heights
cannot dampen love, nor can earthquakes break its foundations, nor can fire
burn away the mantle of the altar or many waters drown my penitent heart.
Hosanna into eternity, sing Shalom as love songs play in the Master's heart,
the Bridegroom calls you comely Bride, tell me, sweet sister, can you hear him?
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.)
