Letter Written In Fetters - 7

Dear son, I have no prologue, nor epilogue, only dialogue That began when God's mirror was only man God's ultimate mind, his dream, his purpose The lump of clay in his hand, he hears his heart Pouring over structure after structure of his great design And we became as he intended, his cherished sons. I did not make you this way, and should doubt My efficacy to have ever made you at all. I can't resist Memories of my own heart beating over you When I held you cuddled to my love, new born Is growing up, growing away too? Then the empty nest Was the twin of your birth, my tragedy deferred For the now when the phone never rings, and we smile And say hello, for it is all a heart can hold now Grooming you, feeding you, buying your joy In boxes clustered like a room with toys ... these things Are so superficial to the estrangement we have with God. From that place of pain I would see, know, touch my life Like I have meant to touch yours over the walls Of many interventions and internecine strife, meet me Like a man and think, how could I take you on Moriah Unless in another way I had also died? Before we heard The bleating lamb that would bleat no more on the cross I had faith that you and I are more eternal than a knife Raised like a fiend against the ethics of civilization As if our best gift to God are dead children. You cannot Come down from that mount without understanding The way I understand how Oedipus blinded was the same But unlike Abram, no deity supervened in his pain. Every separation is another kind of death. Every love A tragedy struggling to give birth to life again. I love you son, and always will remain, your father Longing for the same cross that always is redemption.