Once we have the spirit, we cease to need the law.
Hearts ensouled are weak as flesh,
since the serpent’s head bruised
the first human heel;
in darkness visible, “peacemakers”
assault the earth and light the world;
mourning the poor in spirit,
whose kingdom is heaven,
they inherit the earth.
Out of the wild West Wind,
the Word whirls harmonious;
inside the psalm singer’s soul,
fearful fingers handprint
names wicked as curses.
The venom of vandals
strips the script of spirit
and leaves the letter, their
“law,” in our inward parts,
writ in our hearts, to be our “god.”
Simmering, simmering, simmering,
every chapter and verse of our body
hosts and temples our Holy Ghost,
bringing us from Old Night back to bright,
to a boil, as written
by the last light spoken.
Whose justice shall judge us?
Sinai’s tablets are cyanide pills;
their “law’s” letter fetters and kills
the Holy Spirit’s gust.
All the earth’s foundations are out of course.
Where was I when they were laid?
The voice I trust, the Holy Spirit,
answers out of the whirlwind: “I have said,
Ye are gods; and all of you are children
of the most High. But ye shall die
like men, and fall like one
of the princes,” as it spins
forgiveness of sins, a gospel,
whose grace gives us our Holy Ghosts:
Souls seeking their own salvations.
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