THE PACE OF DEATH, THE FACE OF THE SAVIOR By Nathan Wicks, 1st Year MDiv

You may find yourself driving,
Impelled by some invisible fire,
Some dark explosion inches from your body
And feel that you are not and never have been
The one driving.
You may say, raging at this dark leashing,
This implacable master,
Screaming at the invisible grasping inertia,
“This is not who I am, show your face!”
And you may only hear the joyless laughter,
As the weight bears down on you
And you imagine crossing the yellow line
As the semi-truck passes mere inches away
In this world
That calls
This normal.
This, life.
This, real.

And you may see the crosses
Lined up on the side of the road,
Treated so that the earth’s rot
Will not touch them,
Strung together with lines of power,
Carrying the flame overhead,
Vast distance traversed instantly
Into the closeness of every hearth,
The flickering light in the rapt gaze of those
Screens staring without seeing
Any of this fire carried beyond
Any horizon you can imagine,
An endless procession of synapse,
Bearing the mind of the greatest
Thought that man can conjure,
The harnessed power of
Who-created-whom
Onto the creation with pain inflicted.

And you may commence the lament
Of this rite run rife with fire
Hiding, afraid of its own opposite,
Unwilling to stoop into quenching weakness,
Purifying the dross of some metallic world
As its spew mars this one,
Feigning invisibility, its face blazing everywhere,
Ripping holes in the air itself as
The suffering of each creosoted cross
With that flame turned tar black
Replaces the trees very being,
Bears the poison into your own body
Whose task now is only to bear this mind,
A husk quivering under the nerves hung in midair
As the hammered nail scalds the pain
Across the breach between appendages
Back to some distant source,
The destruction which created the world
In which your life means
The death of all things
That are in your way.

And it says to you:
“You were merely born,
You have no choice into which world.
And there is only this road, and
There is only one way to go.
My mind is your mind,
These lines are your bloodlines,
This wound is all you have of flesh.”

And you might find yourself asking,
“But if you are all,
Tell me where the hope
Lies that bears the world?
This is not gravity, but hatred,
And you, if you don’t love me,
Let me go!”

But it will not let go.
You are crying out into the places
Where no one is listening,
Silent and alone in the hurtling madness
Of this car as you sit passively, unmovable,
Driven on to the endless horizon
More biding than inevitable,
Slouching onward
At 70 miles per hour.

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