1. |
Mercy and Grace
04:08
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I, like all men, desire to be saved
from the vast unknown, that great black abyss.
In holy water I'm told to bathe
so the dirty feet of God I can kiss.
I, like all men, by sin can be enticed
when confined to the desert for forty days.
For when, at first, that Satan tempted Christ
I'm sure he didn't quite know what to say.
I, like all men, am perplexed by evil,
for I'm told God loves his sons and daughters -
But I forget these qualms and breathe quite feeble,
drowning in the cold baptismal waters.
I'm struck down for looking God in the face
to know the difference between mercy and grace.
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2. |
Doubt
03:30
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Thomas and Antonius, I see your wisdom now,
walking half in shadow with eyes closed and furrowed brow.
The light can make no promise that's not kept by the night,
Nor can man make any claim that's free of greed or fright.
A man may pray for angels to save him from the wraiths,
But when no angels come to him It's doubt that cradles faith.
Thomas and Antonius, I see your wisdom now,
To question words of saints before your heads will bow.
For even He without sin hid too, for a night,
Weeping in a garden and crying out in fright.
A man may pray for angels to save him from the wraiths,
But when no angels come to him It's doubt that cradles faith.
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3. |
Knives
04:01
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Barbed wire eyes, a heart made of knives,
a tongue soaked in lies, and the body of Christ.
Hate the savior, love the liar
With his crown of barbed wire.
Set the jewel upon his head,
Now you lay him down to bed.
Sticks and stones may break his bones
But they cannot touch his heart.
He rises up from death,
And we tear his memory apart.
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4. |
Museum of Newark
04:25
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I never knew you, Aunt Rose,
or became a man before you.
But as you did, so too he goes,
blue-veined, unconscious to meet you.
The war in Spain has ended,
or so I have heard it said.
What was won, lost, defended?
And who has fallen, cold and dead?
Ginsberg is dead,
In eternity,
With Hitler and
poor Naomi.
I never saw you, Aunt Rose,
dying in the hospital,
Or stood before you, all legs and toes:
a thin pedestal so brittle.
Was there silence in your heart then,
when the parties were no more?
What was under your ashen skin -
a long, dark hall to a new front door?
Ginsberg is dead,
In eternity,
With Hitler and
Bronte and thee.
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