Christ
He crawled up from the dirt
One mother no shirt
and he kept all along
the stars were his song
And by each passing time
was no reason nor rhyme
he carefully concocted the sum
that lingered like voodoo plum
so you can scratch where you are wrong
For you to be his song
So he kept on with digging
No sense in his winning
the layers were peeled back
Nothing was called to his task
the rosehips and meadow sweet
burned from the sky
the stars were his eyes
drawing breath from on high
the acorns, the chestnuts scattered on the ground
the squirrels, the magpies leaping all around
the crunch of the fauna under an unsocked foot
the whispers, the urgency riddled with muck
for you to be stripped bare
no sense in the notion to share
it was his mother's due care
he is not pyrite masquerading as gold
his story will always and forever be told
he joined in with humanity and coughed up dirt
never tiring, never shaking, fully alert
shaking the ground like a dream
shaking his wounds like an overflowing stream
Oh what good did it seem
he was crucified, one of a kind
no human left behind
in this servant man
poured out for every fan.
So in that golden, honey ambered sunset
let me tell you a tale you shall not forget
He was one and only the great.
To behold the glory of this servant king
All blessings and glory to him do we sing.

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