The writing was on the wall.

I had not forsaken the world

Therefore my name would be an everlasting reproach.

The wars of my childhood convicted me

As the gun I had fought wars with was pieced together

Before my very friends.

I awoke to hear a woman sighing in pleasure.

I had thought I had grieved my God…

But it was the sighing of a woman in pleasure.

Written on the wall was “Megiddo.”

Megiddo is a punishment for sinners.

I awoke from the dream

And cried out to my God,

“Do not make my name an everlasting reproach!”

He listened.

 

I had dreamt that I was a contemptible man.

That I had murdered.

That I had destroyed

I had committed adultery with every fair woman in the land.

Those who go out to war,

They shall be killed by the sword.

Those who tarry for their brother’s wife

They shall be put to death.

 

There was an overwhelming flood.

My dad and I were swimming

And the floods were up to our necks.

Great was the flood.

Beneath was my brother whose name I spoke aloud,

Who had drowned.

I had grieved because he had drowned.

My dad had said, “He hadn’t drowned.”

But, yea, he was drowned.

We both, however, my dad and I, were swimming strong

And survived the flood.

 

I sat at a church.

There was a band.

Those I knew who were listening, at my right side

Fled my side for another

Who tried to murder me,

But I had ministered the Gospel to him

And made great peace with him.

They fled to him

But the singer sung, “You should have let it go.”

She spoke of the world.

I had asked a prophet,

And he said, “Are you sure they didn’t leave

“To see the band better?”

“No,” I replied, “They left me

“To sit with that other man.”

I saw that same prophet in the Spirit

When he was but a lad,

And he said, “God will touch you.”

I trembled, knowing either good or evil awaited me.

 

Let God be my judge.

Not I, not the world

Not my brethren.

All I know is this:

“Jesus is the LORD,”

And with that,

I have failed many times before.

I have sinned many times before.

I have hated and called my brother “Raca”.

I will not call him “Raca” again.

I, rather, will say all this guilt belongs to me.

Though, I am not sure whether it does

Because I have no wont of it.

And if the guilt does belong to me

Lay it upon Christ, and not I.

Not I! Let me never have done

The things I have dreamt about.

All cults are founded on

Man trying to make perfect

What is man’s.

To make men omnipotent.

There is never mystery.

It, rather than know the power of God,

Will strike to the core what God has accomplished

With our brokenness,

And point to it as the proof that the cult is all knowing

And in need of salvation by it

Through it alone.

 

It deems itself more powerful than God

That all of men’s engines God could not possibly use.

It does not understand what grace is.

Blade in his finger

He slashes all fools.—

The fool who did some miraculous thing

Like hit a golf ball

Which ricocheted thrice, into the hole, with a wild pull.

Can it be said that the fool was good at golf?

Rather, he did something once in a million’s lot.

 

Yea, meat comes in due season.

Does it not?

Is not all skill provided for by God?

The more we practice

The more we grow;

The more we’ve seen

The more we know.

I’ve seen a 120 Million Dollar Man

Strike twice with his lob.

 

However,

I’ve seen Grandmasters beaten

Four games to seven.

I know Dunning Kruger

Are full of bad leaven.

For I’ve seen the greats

Beaten by the not so much.

I’ve seen novices which crush

The greatest with a smooth touch.

When a man strikes an endzone

With a perfect throw,

Consider, it is God who in good season

Will give him the goal.

 

 

 

At the mountain’s edge

I looked up in wonder at the mist.

How men will climb it to the top

And topple down the others.

 

Men will strive to reach its peak,

When all they need is to set their

Foot upon the precipice.

 

This is why God performs our vows.

He does not want us to climb

To the very top

And knock our brothers down.

 

Our foot upon the holy hill of

Zion

Is enough.

 

Let our thank offering be tents for the needy.

Let our peace offering be to lend to the poor.

Let our wave offering which we wave before the alter always clothe the naked.

Let our drink offering be poured out as a sweet savor to the foreigner.

Let our tithe unyoke the bonds of the captive.

Let our sacrifice be kind words.

 

Let our religion not be to camp in the wilderness

For the sake of selfish gain.

Let our religion be to visit the widow and orphan

In their time of distress—

Lest we scale the mountain

And knock down the lame and crippled

On our ascent.

I was raptured last night.

 

I flung up

With my laser gun.

I knew about the war.

I fought in the war.

I flung into the sky

With all bright, great zeal.

 

There, the winged Father of Lights

Stood.

 

My report card…

It was marked with red

Very little green.

Full of falsehoods,

Heresies, delinquencies,

As every season of my life

Flashed like a page of a report card.

 

It soon became apparent…

I hadn’t reached heaven.

Because that gun was in my hand.

 

It was the storm-trooper gun from my childhood.

I was ready to play real war.

 

Christians, turn the other cheek.