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.