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Applaud the sounds
and miss the sermons
preached from pulpits
of Calvaries lost.
Children, teach your parents
well
what they missed
when a man emerged from a tomb
and they saw a savior
but forgot the corpse.
Don’t you know that every dead body
will someday
rise?
He is risen, they say,
Without acknowledging the ground
from which he came.
He is risen, they proclaim,
without remembering the hell he condemned
that we all had a hand in
creating.
We want a Christ
without the criminal
forsaken by friends who preferred a king—
broken and battered, he came
and went
and we still tell stories about a god
made man
when the real resurrection runs
through our veins.
Too bad, Mr. Dylan.
They didn’t see the times a-changin’
and were content instead
with storybooks
and myths
about blood sacrifices, the thirst
of angry fathers
quenched.
Too bad
they couldn’t see the spring.
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