JUBILANT FATHER
His face is like a sun, warms the moon beside him.
She´s grown full; tonight begins the waning.
The tide pulls through her very bones,
her form aches as each wave crests.
The earth pulse, heavy, blood warm within her
Beats new chords, old sun god chants.
"You are the first mother and the last,
all spring flesh has traveled through you."
Aztec plumed and gold beaded,
your priest kneels at the holy alter,
gathers each salt pearl shed, nectar for his sacrament.
You are the temple,
we pilgrims swept through the gates,
bent figures know the scent and petals of your presence,
spread our arms to harvest blossoms,
and your priest, sun struck, kneels beside you.
When I finally pass away some day, I can merely hope and pray That I will gaze upon Christ. Though he is constantly depicted in free flowing robes of white, That is not the Savior I expect to see in my sights, No, that image simply is not right. My Savior wears jeans.
Yes, He wears jeans, an opinion I refuse to deny, And if you need reassurance you only need to look toward the sky, And gaze at the intricate shades of blue.
His jeans are long, battered, tattered, and torn. They've been stained with blood, tears, and sweat since before I was born. The blue varies through fades, and prices He's paid. The most appealing part of the jeans are the many splotches of bleach, >From where He has tried to reach and teach, As He walks to and fro, Cleaning the coats, of those whom He knows. And I will be the one of the first to confide, That those stains on his jeans will stay there with pride, No matter how much He uses Clorox 2 or Tide, Because the blotches we see is from where He's lived, thrived, and died, And eventually risen days after making his crucial decision. Yes, it is true, I can see through the blue, my Savior wears jeans.
