Written by Michael Bonikowsky
Rise up, oh Christ
In the middle of my days
Rise up from where I buried you
And break the strata of the year.
Crack the easy hills
End all my neat topography
They are made green and fertile
By what is buried underneath.
Wipe away my careful maps
The lines that mark false nations
With invented histories
And names that mean nothing.
Rise up, oh Christ,
And cast me from my throne
Break the earth in seven pieces
And leave not a one for me.
For when my world is ended
And the king in me is dead
I would have nothing for my portion
But my hand held in yours.
