Paul
“Bow-legged” “hawk-nose” “half-blind”
tears and snot trailing like a comet’s tail
on the short run home.
Was anyone there?
The patriarch’s scowl
like the freezer’s draft
unthawed by mother’s nod
or just chores and lessons
and the pain of being young and strange.
Sharp stones killed Stephen
but none from your hand.
Words were sharper, better aimed
opening wounds still bleeding
through pen, tongue
mixing strangely with
faith-hope-love.
Your vision blinded you.
Did you ever regain sight?
Others took up your story
offered interpretation
but you shout them down
through your large scrawl
turned scripture by some odd
alchemy. The occasional
morphed into eternity.
A specific scolding turned
bludgeoning tool,
for countless generations.
You are not entirely to blame.
You told your story
and the violent bore it away
praising your name amidst
condemnations of those
created in the image of a
broken and bleeding god
in whose shadow they cast lots
for a divided church.
Oh my! That was riveting! I must read it again!
ReplyDelete