My father, from his hospice bed, looked off into the distance and led a church service for an unseen congregation. I scribbled down his words and phrases as he moved in and out of coherence. After this, no more words. He died a day later.
So son, now come on up and sing, we’ll wait.
My breathing spell is cracked. We run the show
and not the angels, though. I love your songs.
Did I misuse the privilege to call on you?
In disregard, in deadly disregard?
Are all the speakers working? And the tapes?
My son will lead our dedication of this space
with such an instrument. Just take your place
and bring the love of God because we’re wicked,
wholly wicked, wicked tongued and wicked faced.
I’d run a nail through two-by-fours
along your butts to hear you praise the Lord.
A deadly disregard I fear I’ve used
and now my breathing spell is cracked
and I do fear the blindfold. My son will come.
God’s angel is the lip that dares to bounder
here. To bounder, did I say? Did I say hate?
I hate the blindfold. Son, don’t wait, you come
on up and play the love of him who walked
embodiment. My breathing spell is cracked.
Did I misuse the privilege to call on you?
My deadly disregard is what I fear.
You hear the spirit and the bride say come?
The boundered lip, the breathing spell that’s cracked
breathes ‘come’, breathes “son”,
breathes “first”, breathes “last”.
Could we with ink the oceans fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade,
To write the love of God above,
Would drain the ocean dry,
Nor would the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.
TimothyOne 