If God is good, might we then hold blessing and lament in balance?
If we are slaves to the expectations of self-actualization,
then we are predestined for the prison of our own blessing
one fine morning,
and on the dawning of the second day, are laid lower
than coal mines, than the suffering souls of Hell.
That’s the secret.
It is the stringing together of tiny metals that make the
tambourines purchased by exotic dancers and church planters.
They are weapons
to those who mourn, the infernal joy in the jangle of brass.
“We are all dying;” that is the mourners’ lament. They speak
We are the line-straddlers, most of us. True, some live in lands
of tambourines, others in Lamentations, but those are
The rest of us bend low by the cypress knees and recite, and recite,
and recite “we believe we shall see the goodness of the Lord in the
land of the living.”