Where is your jar to draw with, A promised flow of water To never thirst again? This dry soul’s not pretty My life is as I wear it Filthy rags Mark not my pity But my shame. One among a brood of vipers What I made and did not make Whence, and from whom, I’m come; Criminals die upon the rack So justice ends the game. As a slug dissolves in salt So ants will come to feast, Tease me not with deals for mercy Or bribes for God That hold no succor From Law’s campaign. God’s fury my future, A payment for my past. Sir, give me this water Springing up or falling down Like everlasting rain! No papal indulgences This Reformation Day No clerics script To cover existential guilt No hair cloth on skin Appeases God for sin, Masochistic self-flagellation A waste of pain.
“If you asked of me,” you said Water That gives life to the dead, The penitent’s proper sacrament A simple faith to ask. I need the belt of Truth to grasp A righteousness not my own Which is all there ever could be, for sinners such as me. The Lamb’s propitious pain suffices for my gain. Randy Nabors, Oct. 31, 2014