You may give; You may take away,  

But You will force this tongue to say

A blessing to Your Name.

Maybe vengeance I’ll have to pay;

Perhaps by “grace” my heart will stray

Back to You. But until the day

That blood-soaked sons beneath the gaze

Of Fathers’ sharpened knives of faith

Look beautiful to me… I’ll scrape

For meaning in the earth. They say

A mass behind my eyes awaits

To stop the sacred wound You’ve made

In Abram’s son, the bastard sage,

Every leprous soul starved of faith.

Come quickly, Great Peace, before “grace”

Infests me with that viral strain

That bends the knee and twists His vain-

-Glory into beauty and makes

My eyes see goodness in his flames.

Under whitewashed gospel remains

Uruk’s vengeful ancient nightmare.

Slain by Gilgamesh in his lair

Huwawa learned man’s mortal snare:

Though not to be trusted, man craves

To trust. From Ur Kasdim to Ca-

-naan’s cult, the blood-guilt haunting placed

A whisper in the wind that claimed

Abram’s faith. A crown of Huwawa’s

Thorns dug in to trap Abram’s heir:

He saw the ram, his life was spared,

But earth scorched by the evil trade:

Convinced of guilt, man must be saved

By infinite drops of blood: Ab-

-rahamic thirst to quell the blame

For hidden defects without names.