A voice calls out in the wilderness, preparing The way for Salvation. The plan is laid out: the plasma'll start circling Around His feet, as the notes melodramatically Change, raising a cloud of multicouloured dust. The rock LED-struck would lift up in those clouds And the clouds of fairy dust would produce bread. The crowds will watch in awe, hearts will turn. Then standing haloed on the edge of a cliff He would increase peril by facing the crowd To meet the Pisa, but only falling to the rocks Below. But the drum of the beat will change 'fore his feet Hit ground, as a flash of the S-chested angels Whisk him up, leaving levitation to draw out Cheers, kowtows, conversions, repentance. Then foreseeing the weakness of the cross, Bleeding, helpless, He would kneel. Three years of wasted ministry prevented By the brave act of trading this simple act For the salvation of all the kingdoms of the Earth, ('Cause, you know, he who never lies said so.) Having been assigned leadership to the King of Heaven and now Earth, all souls would cheer "Hail to the King, Hail to the King" And Mission Accomplished, the Son would return. A voice plans this all in the wilderness, But it isn't the Baptist. It's the bearer of all that's shiny, Bearing light as a beacon to trap fickle hearts. See how our Saviour chose the scenic route: Not the glamour of human expression of worship, He obscured the message with long boring Parables, that contradicted the common- Sense of the day, and mocked academia, Nor the Hollywood-like production of miraculous Miracles, spiced with convenient back stories; He healed, resurrected but asked to Keep such under lock and key until The Cross had been revealed that The focus be kept always on Love Nor comfortable choices to make the journey Of pain less painful than it needs to be. He taught climbing out of one's skin To remind us that human strength doesn't Get good mileage, but a shared yoke Kills usurper guilt forever, He chose a cross, a quiet wooden cross, That we never forget the Sacrifice: For us, But about the Father, and to the Father. (c) nyonglema
One step on the white blistering sand,
Sandals in hand, turban shrouding my beard
From the gusts of arid wind sucking my sweat
And burning my skin and mucosa.
I looked ahead, raising my hand
To block the sun and see the herd
Of camels ahead, and beyond the dunes,
The promise of death from thirst and hunger.
I saw the cactus hold firm to the sand,
And scavengers in the form of an innocent bird
Swimming overhead as if to admire their work:
Meatless bones basking lifeless in the sun.
Was that my fate? Lifeless in the sand
Going through the process to be bird turd
As they pecked and relished? So it seemed.
I pulled myself on, and my body protested.
Is this why this route was so bland?
That civilisation despite its million nerds
Had not found a way to profane the dunes
And enforce its will on Nature’s plans?
But I keep on with the target at hand.
Oh…I forgot to give you the Word!
Great promise lies ahead, beyond the pain,
Beyond the thirst, beyond lurking death.
Behind me lies a devastated land,
The old me: wicked an absurd.
Beyond the pain lies Life, and just like a newborn,
I shall bear the suffering that takes me Home.