by Pavel Chichikov
No other religion
Had such fools for prophets
For those who were His own were cowards
Except the women
Save for one and for the women
All were shown the instruments
The mallet and the spike
The dread flagellum
They fled, the lot
Who saw the dead stand up
The blind see shapes and colors
The low take heart
For if He were to fasten us like whelps
And shake us up to heaven
Or bring it down to us
It would not help
And yet these stupid blind ones
Cowards, these poltroons
Who left him to a horror on a hill
Became His sons
Those who had no aptitude for valor
Yet wanted to reserve high seats
And watch the universe adore their feet
Became love's martyrs
Became the lowest of the low
So did the Master sow
In sterile ground
And there may He be found
Visit Pavel's website at Grey Owl Press.
