Please listen if You could, Father,
desperately lost out of Your secure robes,
plowing the earth as reinforced cement,
hunted for my measly skin to cover some tent,
wandering prey traveling by fires at night,
stumbled after palm fronds blanketing Your path.
Bread soaked in blood for my finger bowl,
clenching hands firmly together with Your praise,
thoroughly blessed now as Your only son,
who accepted every chain they set before him,
expanded prior to my opening gallery on their tree,
scattering my dust until its mark jags all clothes.
I once led a small army bravely against Rome,
then made damn sure any stone was carried,
over to build the rickety foundation of their pyramid,
its joints and mortar not cleaned in advance,
was heavily paid for with ten of my men to three,
as our fierce camps faded in strength the next day.
Flung inside Your heat on to my bitter last verse,
a whole lake can’t quench Your vagabond’s evil thirst,
playing with Your scripture above my troubled head,
another favor given to win the moment I’m dead,
Your toe across each scale claiming to be coerced,
knowing of this for centuries is still not rehearsed.
Sharwrong's Song 