Who Am I?

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I am a dandelion blown to the wind, fragile
baby spiders cast adrift in the atmosphere,
a raindrop searching for earth to fructify a
sleeping seed, and in my smallness, in my index
fingers you dance, angel on the head of a finger,
deepest at my roots, oh Lord, you catch me and
lift me up to the riverbank, when the rushing
undertow of life grows to much, there you are
with a storm and thunder strike, bathing me in
redemption, can you see how ephemeral and tiny
I am, oh my Christ? Gloria in excelsis Deo, is
that what you sing? Raising your voice amongst
the lepers, limbless, starved and altogether
wounded? I am but a pauper at your table, dressed
in ashes and salt from Lot's wife, for I looked
upon God and was turned to rime, you wash away all
of the stains of history, from my sinful rib to
Eve's overcurious heart, and the first bite of your
bread is a breakdown of manic flesh on the tongue,
your blood curdles in my gut and I scream in joy.
Can't you see how precious I feel in your arms?
You pierce me with a sword like culling nations,
you rock me to sleep, you claim me as deep as bone.
Ever since I cast the Devil into the desert, into
the Pits of Apollyon, oh Yeshua, you have been
relentless, indomitable, my medicine, my bliss!
I will write your praises into eternity, my King.
Oh my God, unleash your lovingkindness and wrath
upon me, you blue flame and white Pentecost fire.
I am nothing if not a mystic marriage to the Christ.
I am nothing if not your bride, like thousands before
me, this is not a new story: girl falls from grace,
girl is damned, girl finds God on her own Damascus
Road, and they will call me a heretic and nonbeliever,
for it was not until you came to me on Good Friday
that I even contemplated a world with you supreme.
Now we have a constant dialogue, and we weep and laugh
and share dreams and listen to songs of love and loss.

You are the sweetest song, Michael Christ, Jah.

I would but taste your halo on my lips and sing your praise into evermore.

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