I was built to cry
to writhe and to suffer
to have my heart break
with the weeping of others.
With orphan and widow
and sickly and poor
I will cry
I will writhe
while we broken endure.

I was built to fight
to rebel and wage war
to crush everything
set against Truth and Life.
Against powers and princes
ills without and within
I will slash
I will burn
’til I am one with Him

The saints all must sleep
and the prophets must play,
but I deny both in
this bed I have made.

For I am no war bride,
I am no silent pet,
and the language I speak
she has not learned yet.

I am much to judicious
to accept all the reckless
pretext of instinct in
this loveless cathexis.

You’ve shown me the weight of suffering,
and taught me to persevere.

You’ve shown me the deceit of rationalization,
and taught me to be disciplined.

You’ve shown me the ease of delusion,
and taught me to sacrifice for truth.

You’ve shown me the pretense of doubt,
and taught me to be faithful.

You’ve shown me the foolishness of anxiety,
and taught me to be peaceful.

You’ve shown me the paralysis of fear,
and taught me to be bold.

You’ve shown me the degradation of lust,
and taught me to value devoted love.

You’ve shown me the loneliness of self-absorption,
and taught me to care for what’s important.

You’ve shown me the futility of sorrow
and taught me to choose joy.

You’ve shown me the blindness of pride,
and taught me to gladly surrender.

You’ve shown me the danger of reputation,
and taught me to truly be myself.

You’ve shown me the bondage of godlessness,
and taught me to be free in Christ.

You’ve shown me the immaturity of us,
and helped me to grow into a better man.

All this time, I thought, surely,
I was supposed to teach you.
It’s a shame you’ll never learn, since,
you’ve made it clear you’re happy how you are.

But it’s time for me to share what I’ve been taught with someone else.

Thank you, teacher. Goodbye.

The prisoner,
he says he’s unhappy about God.
He says he doesn’t think
because of a soul
that is made in the image of God.
He says he perceives
because of nerve endings
that make images in his brain.

The prisoner,
he says science is wonderful
and will produce a new man.
He tells his holy brother
he’ll have to move out of the way
to make room for chemistry.
He says everything is chemistry,
and chemistry is everything.

The prisoner,
he says he understands all of this,
but he wants to know
what will happen to men—
the new men science will produce.
He’s worried about science
and what he doesn’t understand.

The prisoner,
he says that if there is no God
and no life beyond the grave
then men must be allowed
to do whatever they want.
And the new man will indeed
do whatever it is he wants.

The prisoner,
he hopes the new man,
will be more clever than he.
Because an intelligent man
can do whatever he wants
as long as he’s clever enough
to get away with it.

The prisoner,
he wasn’t clever enough.
It was all chemistry’s fault,
for the lies and lust,
the madness and murder.
Yet he worries about science,
and if chemistry is everything after all.

The prisoner,
worries about science
and what he doesn’t understand
as he rots before his grave
and the nothing that is beyond it
at the end of his godless life.

The prisoner,
he says he’s unhappy about God.
He says he misses Him.

The prisoner,
he says he’s found joy in God.
He says he will not suffer
because of any fear
behind these leprous walls.
He says that he will sing
because a sun has dawned upon him
that makes him feel alive.

The prisoner,
he says conviction is redeeming
and has freed a new man.
He tells his holy brother
he’ll surely find a way
to make room for loving.
He says everything is love,
and love is everything.

The prisoner,
he says he understands all of this,
but he wants to know
what will happen to the man—
the new man conviction has freed.
He wants to find a way,
to share what he’s come to understand.

The prisoner,
he says that if God was killed,
and no gift came from His grave,
then men would not be able
to find life in anything they do.
But the new man will indeed
find life in everything he does.

The prisoner,
he knows the new man
will be more giving than he.
Because a humbly gracious man
finds life in everything he does,
and as he gives to others
he gets what he truly needs.

The prisoner,
he is eager to give.
It’s because of his conviction,
he has freedom and joy,
strength and meaning.
He wants to share what he has found,
since love is everything after all.

The prisoner,
he fears nothing
and shares what he’s come to understand,
the gift that rose up from the grave
and the treasure we receive
when we’ve given God our lives.

The prisoner,
he says he’s found joy in God.
He says he loves Him!
]]> http://valeriangraile.wordpress.com/2010/04/17/the-prisoner-reformed/feed/ 0 valeriangraile http://valeriangraile.wordpress.com/2010/04/07/the-prisoner/ http://valeriangraile.wordpress.com/2010/04/07/the-prisoner/#comments Thu, 08 Apr 2010 03:03:44 +0000 valeriangraile http://valeriangraile.wordpress.com/?p=1016 ]]> The prisoner,
he says he’s unhappy about God.
He says he doesn’t think
because of a soul
that is made in the image of God.
He says he perceives
because of nerve endings
that make images in his brain.

The prisoner,
he says science is wonderful
and will produce a new man.
He tells his holy brother
he’ll have to move out of the way
to make room for chemistry.
He says everything is chemistry,
and chemistry is everything.

The prisoner,
he says he understands all of this,
but he wants to know
what will happen to men—
the new men science will produce.
He’s worried about science
and what he doesn’t understand.

The prisoner,
he says that if there is no God
and no life beyond the grave
then men must be allowed
to do whatever they want.
And the new man will indeed
do whatever it is he wants.

The prisoner,
he hopes the new man
will be more clever than he.
Because an intelligent man
can do whatever he wants
as long as he’s clever enough
to get away with it.

The prisoner,
he wasn’t clever enough.
It was all chemistry’s fault,
for the lies and lust,
the madness and murder.
Yet he worries about science,
and if chemistry is everything after all.

The prisoner,
worries about science
and what he doesn’t understand
as he rots before his grave
and the nothing that is beyond it
at the end of his godless life.

The prisoner,
he says he’s unhappy about God.
He says he misses Him.

We talked about women and relationships. We talked about what makes relationships work and why they fail. We talked about the chemical, sexual attraction that can bring people together or tear them apart. We talked about the deeper bond and friendship that keeps people together when all else is falling apart. We talked about how my parents relationship began and how it has lasted so long. We talked about how his father and mother’s relationship began and how she has lasted so long after he died so young.

We talked about throwing caution to the wind and living free and living reckless. We reminisced about hitchhiking from California back home to Pennsylvania, and jumping in planes to Puerto Rico without any money or any plan, and being sick and lost in Spain without a place to sleep, and rolling with a rough crowd and then rolling with the inevitably rough consequences.

We talked about living responsibly and with integrity. We talked about our careers and our futures. We talked about taking care of those we love and giving to those we don’t even know out of gratitude for what we have. We talked about right and wrong…and certainty and doubt about each. We talked about what our culture tells us and what the world sells us. We talked about listening to our hearts and refusing to buy any lies.

We didn’t talk about Bah-Bisco or Space Eggs but we laughed about Bear Trap and Bulldozer and Crazy Hat Day.

We drank beer and sangria. He drank tequila and I drank scotch. We ate burgers on the Upper East Side and had tapas downtown. We shopped for motorcycles out in Queens and we played some guitar in Union Square. We talked about tattoos in the ink shop on St. Marks to the tune of the needle gun. We played pool in the East Village to the tunes on the jukebox. In Soho, we browsed new and improved technology and then talked about an ancient and timeless God.

This is what Father-Son Day looks like for Alphonso and me these days. We did so many things that so many people don’t get to experience with their parents or their children. We’re blessed beyond worded description.

I learned so much on this day, but one thing is absolutely clear: I am my father’s son.

Later, just after leaving the train, I had to wipe my eyes because I was indeed crying a little. I saw a dead man. Not a ghost. This man was dead, but yet he was still alive. Not a zombie either. He was a real live human. Barely.

He was dead because he seemed to show no sign of having anything that you or I would consider a “life”. He was only alive because his heart happened to continue beating. I only know he lived because he shuffled a bit at the screeching of the subway train as it pulled away.

He was so close to being a dead man that he slept in what amounted to a body-bag. Wrapped in a blanket and some foam and a garbage bag, he succeeded where I had failed: he had covered every last inch of his body from the cold…including his eyes. Even underground in the subway station, it was frigid. Even underground with the rats, there was somehow still a slight wind. The rats scurried along the tracks, but he just sat there. The rats were more alive than he was.

Here he was, grasping on to whatever life he had left when it would be so much easier to just crawl above ground and expose himself to the frost of evening where he could be carried off to the next realm with hopes that he might find a better sort of existence. Just above this station is the Trinity Church Cemetery where he could go and lie down to die among the graves of notable corpses like Alexander Hamilton, John Jacob Astor, and Robert Fulton. But here he chose to stay and fight, buried alive in his tomb, wrapped tight in his body-bag, keeping safe from the cold…and the rats.

It’s not quite true when I said that it was only his slight movement confirming to me that he was still alive. And it’s not when I saw this man in his body-bag that my eyes began to well up. It’s when I heard him that I knew he was alive. It’s when I heard him that I knew his heart was still beating. It’s when I heard him that my heart broke. Because after the train and its screeching wheels had been long gone, and the crowd of commuters dissipated, all that was left was the sound of scurrying rats and the deep, thick sobbing of a dead man alive.

Then, through a din faintly.
Then, through a hum hardly.
I heard.

And now, the eyes of my ears have opened.
And now, the ears of my eyes hear clear.
I am.

Here, my insides crawl below you.
Here, my storm unfolds before you.
Here, my heart beats hard upon you.
Here, my peace lays still beside you.

Here, parched and worn,
I tell of my desert temptations.
Here, lonely and lost,
I tell of my forlorn troubles.
Here, strong and triumphant,
I tell of my battle victories.
Here, serene and satisfied,
I tell of my cherished reward.

These are my psalms:
some covered with war paint,
some stained with blood,
some beaded with sweat,
some soaked with tears,
some scented with oils,
some sprinkled with spice,
some gilded with jewels,
some showered with light,
all of them naked,
all of them crude,
all of them true,
all of them for you.

Selah