Therefore the Lord Himself Shall Give You a Sign

On sylvan hills our gilded age

dies out in favor of the 1950s:

two-tone tress all white and

black as though the seasons

caught the modern spirit by

thine advent here—Our Lord

delivered on suburban lawn.

The Word became plastic and

made His dwelling among us.

But come, o come, Emmanuel—

to stable or suburban lawn, or

to the tune of trumpets blaring

through the rolled-back clouds.

Your nature's laws could not prevent

your coming, yet o come again,

Emmanuel, and ransom captive

sylvan hills, suburban lawn and Israel.

He Which Testifieth These Things Saith, Surely I Come Quickly

The silver cord was severed, and

the golden bowl was broken pouring

plagues of hail and slag and ash

into the skies above our Babylon.

“It is done,” the loud voice called

in thund'ring tone as trumpets

sounded fanfare for the iron-clad

Jerusalem descending from the sky:

streets of gold as though it were

transparent glass with cobblestone

and trolley-track showing through.

I heard the voice from heaven say,

“Behold the tabernacle of God is with

men, and He will dwell with them—

and everything is meaningless.”

The Brownish Tragedy of Two Young Lovers

Act I

The night was maple-leaf in mid-October

when they had the pleasure of watching those

maples leave and be cast out of the heavens.

“Make a wish,” she said with all

the excitement of a child and

all the auburn of a woman's lips.

I wish the sky was always autumn,

he thought, clinging to her in

anticipation of the coming winter.

Act II

She cast him out one evening: he

one lonely leaf clinging to her limbs.

“But it's you who's leaving me,”

she said with all the cruelty

of her woman's lips, calling

after that whirling boy.

Act III

He lay there brown—

sneering at her barren limbs

until he decomposed and

wore away.

Pennies on the Tracks

The railroad chirruped like a

flock of sparrows fleeing from

an iron falcon, when he laid his

head to roost upon the track.

From a distance came the

falcon’s cry, whistling through

the summer air. The sparrows

flew along the rails, but one

pigeon-penny nestled on the

track, cooing gently as it

waited for its absolution.

The Kingdom of Heaven Suffereth Violence, and the Violent Take It by Force

I'll pay my debt in pounds of flesh—

a hand or an eye to fund my sins. 
Or perhaps I'll play the Jew this time 
and rend the flesh from out Your breast: 
pound for pound, eye for eye, hand for hand.

We'll writhe together on the threshing floor,

winnowing out the wheat and tares. 
You'll tear my hip from out its socket, 
and I the flesh from out Your side, 
begging You to bless me.

Then must the Jew be merciful.

Have patience with me, and I will pay Thee all:

two eyes, both hands, and every pound to split the difference.

This Do in Remembrance of Me

Eating by our sweaty brows, 
with two hands full of bread and toil,
we walked the aisle and hungered for

Lord-haste-the-day, the scrolling clouds,

resounding trump, descending Lord.

"It is well," we sang, so very well--
and maybe meant it for a moment.

The Gospel of Wealth

The manna spread over our homes like

dust and coriander resting on a steel-mill

town, and we grumbled at the Lord

as we toiled for our blessings—

and all the while the fly ash

kept settling out of heaven.

Forty years we gathered slag and baked

unleavened loaves of cancerous bread until

ashes-ashes all our manna gone to rot.

And when we had returned to dust and

rested on our neighbors' porches, they sang

a dirge and hymns of praise unto the Lord.

Though He Slay Me, Yet Will I Hope in Him

The voice of God drifted on

a breeze too still to blow away

the chaff that lay scattered on

the threshing floor—How long,

o Lord? we whispered through

our gnashing teeth, and wept

to see our lives ground out

in such imperfect grain.