445 Religion poems

Somewhere in Eden, after all this time, does there still stand, abandoned, like a ruined city, gates sealed with grisly nails, the luckless garden? Is sultry day still followed there by sultry dusk, sultry night, where on the branches sallow and purple the fruit hangs rotting? Is there still, underground, spreading like lace among the rocks a network of unexploited lodes, onyx and gold? Through the lush greenery their wash echoing afar do there still flow the four glassy streams of which no mortal drinks? Somewhere in Eden, after all this time, does there still stand, like a city in ruins, forsaken, doomed to slow decay, the failed garden?

Church of broken toasters and singed fuses, church of the dripping roof and chipped chimney stack, of the flooded garage and its split door, gas-hissing pipes and sibilant water heaters, church of piss-poor light and shaky ladders where I unchoke windows and dislodge chopsticks from pipes, smooth curled up wallpaper and key the locks, fix clocks sticking or ticking with different times, church where wings of dead flies drift like petals from cobwebs, ghosts sift through floorboards and the homeless sleep in compost, steeping like tea bags pungent from the leaves' damp weight. Church where I am summoned by the door's clatter of brass to the brown-toothed vagrant who spreads open her overcoat; to the chattering man who communes with pines and brooms the stairs; to the bent, old Japanese woman who forgets her keys, waits for me to twist the lock free so she can scrub floors with Murphy wood soap and a toothbrush, wobble atop a ladder and polish the two-ton bell. On this path I am my uncle setting cubes of cheese into jaws of traps, and my grandmother stirring peas into a pan of fried rice, and my grandfather padding the halls in slippers and gloves, the cold globes of his breath a string of prayer beads weaving me, a mixed-blood grandson, into them.

In the lull, the afternoon sun warms the linseed field. The flowers are quiet, their bright subdued in the green while the mind wanders to the emerald mosque upon the hill, built around a flowing spring, the easy absolutions and ablutions in that mosque where the spring water has been let loose to meander over marble courtyards and inner chambers, across the geometric, green-tiled floor that cools the heels of the faithful.

chuuch /church [pronounced without the r. the r is the hump on our backs. too much to weigh /wait. imagine replacing the r with u. the cupping is softer. all the things it holds. it often sounds like ahh. round and complete. it all comes together. like home.] from the renowned amen! meaning let it be. or so it is. or so may have it. and take into agreement. this the stamp. the let it be said and sold. the solidarity screaming from the stem of our spouts. 
this is the yes. used in positions of incognegro. the screech beyond the never-lands of our blocks. posted and protecting. remember the code.
 often known as i peep game. or the never ending i’m on it, bro. 
 closing the deal. the celebration of i see you. welcome to my memory for another day. let the house of our bodies be grateful. for our sacrifices have not killed us. yet. said like a vaccine. the awkwardness dancing on your lip before
 your words fall and ruin the show. this can also be the broken promise. the text you know you won’t reply to. the person you 
 drag your heart for with no supplies left to clean. this is sometimes the last stake. the call of i don’t understand, but imma figure this shit out. the choir is singing and you can’t understand anything 
 sang. you sing. for the house is still bouncing. ace boom cooling. this is not to be confused with sending off. it’s the most honest
 thing we are unsure of. for every house is not covered. so we 
cover our prayer with a this is it. this is real and our lives. we do
 not agree to this condition of our well-being. blast and break our 
cinder blocks like tambourines. we weave the stories together. thank and talk through our teeth. for we know. we understand. we 
light the sky. shake up with god and find the move. keep the key.
 keep it pushing.

Close to the gates of Paradise I flee; The night is hot and serpents leave their beds, And slide along the dark, crooking their heads,— My God, my God, open the gates to me! My eyes are burning so I cannot see; My feet are bleeding and I suffer pain; Let me come in on the cool grass again— My God, my God, open the gates to me! I ate the fruit of the forbidden tree, And was cast out into the barren drouth; And since – the awful taste within my mouth! My God, my God, open the gates to me! Am I shut out for all eternity? I do repent me of my one black sin, With prayers and tears of blood . . . Let me come in! My God, my God, open the gates to me! Let me come in where birds and flowers be; Let me once more lie naked in the grass That trembles when the long wind-ripples pass! Lord God, Lord God, open the gates to me!

I have forgotten the words, and therefore I shall not conceive of a mysterious salvation, I shall not become a tall lily and bloom into blue and white. Then what oracular event shall appear on my doorstep? What announcement shall crowd me to a corner, protesting an unworthiness, which doubtless shall be believed? But these are only bells we hear, pulled down by the arms of the drunken janitor, two fingers missing on his left hand. And we have climbed into that tower, its spiraling wooden staircase creaking beneath our feet. We have seen for ourselves that it is only iron that rings, iron swinging on an iron bar, the rough rope threading down to the cold ground, no death or holiness in those hollow shells.

Salvation comes by Jesus Christ alone, The only Son of God; Redemption now to every one, That love his holy Word. Dear Jesus we would fly to Thee, And leave off every Sin, Thy Tender Mercy well agree; Salvation from our King. Salvation comes now from the Lord, Our victorious King; His holy Name be well ador’d, Salvation surely bring. Dear Jesus give they Spirit now, Thy Grace to every Nation, That han’t the Lord to whom we bow, The Author of Salvation. Dear Jesus unto Thee we cry, Give us the Preparation; Turn not away thy tender Eye; We seek thy true Salvation. Salvation comes from God we know, The true and only One; It’s well agreed and certain true, He gave his only Son. Lord hear our penetential Cry: Salvation from above; It is the Lord that doth supply, With his Redeeming Love. Dear Jesus by thy precious Blood, The World Redemption have: Salvation now comes from the Lord, He being thy captive slave. Dear Jesus let the Nations cry, And all the People say, Salvation comes from Christ on high, Haste on Tribunal Day. We cry as Sinners to the Lord, Salvation to obtain; It is firmly fixt his holy Word, Ye shall not cry in vain. Dear Jesus unto Thee we cry, And make our Lamentation: O let our Prayers ascend on high; We felt thy Salvation. Lord turn our dark benighted Souls; Give us a true Motion, And let the Hearts of all the World, Make Christ their Salvation. Ten Thousand Angels cry to Thee, Yea lourder than the Ocean. Thou art the Lord, we plainly see; Thou art the true Salvation. Now is the Day, excepted Time; The Day of Salvation; Increase your Faith, do no repine: Awake ye every Nation. Lord unto whom now shall we go, Or seek a safe Abode; Thou hast the Word Salvation too The only Son of God. Ho! every one that hunger hath, Or pineth after me, Salvation be thy leading Staff, To set the Sinner free. Dear Jesus unto Thee we fly; Depart, depart from Sin, Salvation doth at length supply, The Glory of our King. Come ye Blessed of the Lord, Salvation greatly given; O turn your Hearts, accept the Word, Your Souls are fit for Heaven. Dear Jesus we now turn to Thee, Salvation to obtain; Our Hearts and Souls do meet again, To magnify thy Name. Come holy Spirit, Heavenly Dove, The Object of our Care; Salvation doth increase our Love; Our Hearts hath felt thy fear. Now Glory be to God on High, Salvation high and low; And thus the Soul on Christ rely, To Heaven surely go. Come Blessed Jesus, Heavenly Dove, Accept Repentance here; Salvation give, with tender Love; Let us with Angels share.

In Virgynë the sweltrie sun gan sheene, And hotte upon the mees did caste his raie; The apple rodded from its palie greene, And the mole peare did bende the leafy spraie; The peede chelandri sunge the livelong daie; ’Twas nowe the pride, the manhode of the yeare, And eke the grounde was dighte in its moste defte aumere. The sun was glemeing in the midde of daie, Deadde still the aire, and eke the welken blue, When from the sea arist in drear arraie A hepe of cloudes of sable sullen hue, The which full fast unto the woodlande drewe, Hiltring attenes the sunnis fetive face, And the blacke tempeste swolne and gatherd up apace. Beneathe an holme, faste by a pathwaie side, Which dide unto Seyncte Godwine’s covent lede, A hapless pilgrim moneynge did abide. Pore in his newe, ungentle in his weede, Longe bretful of the miseries of neede, Where from the hail-stone coulde the almer flie? He had no housen theere, ne anie covent nie. Look in his glommed face, his sprighte there scanne; Howe woe-be-gone, how withered, forwynd, deade! Haste to thie church-glebe-house, asshrewed manne! Haste to thie kiste, thie onlie dortoure bedde. Cale, as the claie whiche will gre on thie hedde, Is Charitie and Love aminge highe elves; Knightis and Barons live for pleasure and themselves. The gatherd storme is rype; the bigge drops falle; The forswat meadowes smethe, and drenche the raine; The comyng ghastness do the cattle pall, And the full flockes are drivynge ore the plaine; Dashde from the cloudes the waters flott againe; The welkin opes; the yellow levynne flies; And the hot fierie smothe in the wide lowings dies. Liste! now the thunder’s rattling clymmynge sound Cheves slowlie on, and then embollen clangs, Shakes the hie spyre, and losst, dispended, drown’d, Still on the gallard eare of terroure hanges; The windes are up; the lofty elmen swanges; Again the levynne and the thunder poures, And the full cloudes are braste attenes in stonen showers. Spurreynge his palfrie oere the watrie plaine, The Abbote of Seyncte Godwynes convente came; His chapournette was drented with the reine, And his pencte gyrdle met with mickle shame; He aynewarde tolde his bederoll at the same; The storme encreasen, and he drew aside, With the mist almes craver neere to the holme to bide. His cope was all of Lyncolne clothe so fyne, With a gold button fasten’d neere his chynne; His autremete was edged with golden twynne, And his shoone pyke a loverds mighte have binne; Full well it shewn he thoughten coste no sinne: The trammels of the palfrye pleasde his sighte, For the horse-millanare his head with roses dighte. “An almes, sir prieste!” the droppynge pilgrim saide, “O! let me waite within your covente dore, Till the sunne sheneth hie above our heade, And the loude tempeste of the aire is oer; Helpless and ould am I alas! and poor; No house, ne friend, ne moneie in my pouche; All yatte I call my owne is this my silver crouche.” “Varlet,” replyd the Abbatte, “cease your dinne; This is no season almes and prayers to give; Mie porter never lets a faitour in; None touch mie rynge who not in honour live.” And now the sonne with the blacke cloudes did stryve, And shettynge on the grounde his glairie raie, The Abbatte spurrde his steede, and eftsoones roadde awaie. Once moe the skie was blacke, the thunder rolde; Faste reyneynge oer the plaine a prieste was seen; Ne dighte full proude, ne buttoned up in golde; His cope and jape were graie, and eke were clene; A Limitoure he was of order seene; And from the pathwaie side then turned hee, Where the pore almer laie binethe the holmen tree. “An almes, sir priest!” the droppynge pilgrim sayde, “For sweete Seyncte Marie and your order sake.” The Limitoure then loosen’d his pouche threade, And did thereoute a groate of silver take; The mister pilgrim dyd for halline shake. “Here take this silver, it maie eathe thie care; We are Goddes stewards all, nete of oure owne we bare. “But ah! unhailie pilgrim, lerne of me, Scathe anie give a rentrolle to their Lorde. Here take my semecope, thou arte bare I see; Tis thyne; the Seynctes will give me mie rewarde.” He left the pilgrim, and his waie aborde. Virgynne and hallie Seyncte, who sitte yn gloure, Or give the mittee will, or give the gode man power.

By way of my mother, the deacon with the slick gray hair and money clip in his pocket can claim a percentage of my body like tithe rights. And on this Sunday, as with every other Sunday, he is a slender ebony panel in the fence of faith, one man in the company of men standing shoulder to shoulder in suits, tapping their toes, clapping their hands, putting muscle to work in the making of praise music. We Baptists call this devotion, my working definition of which is faithfulness to the light. To the extent that God is as white as the clouds of heaven, this theory holds. To the extent these particular men are dark, I must consider other possibilities: that God remade himself in my image so that we could be closer or that devotion means the commitment of black men to stand with one another

Throw away thy rod, Throw away thy wrath: O my God, Take the gentle path. For my heart’s desire Unto thine is bent: I aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And thy book alone. Though I fail, I weep: Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove; Love will do the deed: For with love Stony hearts will bleed. Love is swift of foot; Love’s a man of war, And can shoot, And can hit from far. Who can ’scape his bow? That which wrought on thee, Brought thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away thy rod; Though man frailties hath, Thou art God: Throw away thy wrath.