Come down off that cross of yours.
Give us a king we can fight for.
Come down off your mountaintop.
Show us signs we can see and touch.
Son of God, I think you owe us that much.
“Have some tea to warm the chill of night out of your throat
and sit here with Me for a while.
You won’t hear My voice booming down from the skies,
but neither do you dream with your eyes.
You know not from whence it comes,
or to where the wind is blowing,
but you feel it when its there
like fingers passing through your hair.”
It was not You who turned this bread of life
to ash in my mouth,
only my fiery tongue.
You see, my memory has a tendency to fail
when I need most
to render my heart unto Thee.
Chamomile reminds me,
no philosopher-king with words can sing
the song of the Wild One’s heart
– the One who sings,
“Tell Me, where were you
when the heavens birthed the earth from the womb
and the Spring of Life opened its mouth?
Don’t forget your origins, My child, My love, My bride.
I know this just doesn’t seem right.
Through the honeybees and apple trees,
the darkest nights and stormy seas,
your Papa is calling you home.
You don’t have to keep starving alone.”