Stream

Stream of conscience is a fun thing sometimes.
feel free to interpret how you wish...








They stood as sweaty men
Shaking hands with good news still dripping from their brow
Bibles in hand beating all with their muscular voices
They spoke of freedom, love and hell.
“United, we can be one by never being one”
Power was given unto them to cover the face of the earth with Joy
For a while there was joy
This joy became power
The Love became love of power to contain and control

Now on the graves of dead preachers
Spirit to Spirit their children cry out
They still reach for our hands
Through their coffins, through the dirt
Yet their children find only the hands passing up bread of hate
Hands that should have shaped clay into sons and daughters
Still shaping vessels of fool’s gold that hold trash and hate.

The old cemetery guard is dying in his sleep
Where once his great schools graduated thinkers and men
Now they graduate hands who wish to control and water graves with new sweat
Hands that still thrust allegiance straight to fear himself and claim the land
Voices that boom still in their hallways and then in buildings of
Brass, marble, chandeliers, Cadillacs, and mirrors

“Hail Me! Hail my Church in the Name of Jesus and Me. My way and no other!
Lock the doors, let no one in!”
There words caught fire to the curtains hiding the light.
Their building is now burning
Where once their sweat was from the fire in their belly
It comes from the fire of their burning buildings and burning buses.
The buses that drove children to a great assembly
To vote for them, the procurers of fear and power.
And still they stamp down the dirt around their graves and
Where the thorns grow that keep them safe and still.
Power from Power to Power for Power.
We left the garden to them and they grew more thorns.


Among the thorns of Eden something new grows
A new wind blows these days
Still she rises, she blooms,
Beautiful
She pushes through the stones of guilt and hate
Through the war, blood, and lies, choking the thorns
A strange flower blooms
She rises from the ashes of burnt buses and pillars
She is their children and they are us.

Those Children are now turning from your divided fold
Spirit that parted the waters is now flowing through them
Fresh and clean they lean towards the wind to listen.
They can hear again the voice of their Shepherd
They are the Church now
We are the Church now
The flower blooms from the rotted wood of your coffin
A beauty from your ashes
A new Love unites us
A true Body is found there.

Somewhere in the faint memory of our soul begotten from yours
We heard the voice of our Shepherd say:

“Take and eat, this is My Body”
“Take and drink, this is My Blood”

We are coming to the table again to eat and remember.

No longer will we point our fingers in vain to ourselves for truth
We will eat again from what was buried in fertile soil of the Garden planted long before
Planted where no flame can reach from Hells gate
Watered deep by the blood of the Saints
The Son of the Living God burned in Her veins, her roots, and so again in ours

Farewell Church of the divided
Farwell Church of thorns
Farwell Church of fear and neglect

This we do this in remembrance of Him.