Odin and Prometheus

Odin crucified himself,
Hallowing his godhood on the hanging tree,
Which winds between the worlds,
In gory glory giving
His eye in order to obtain
The wisdom he was wanting. 
He saw that man must remain
In misery. 
Man was not meant to be content,
Or else he’d give up on his gods. 
So man must be in need,
To keep him on his knees. 
If he is satisfied,
Why would he give a sacrifice?

Prometheus, tho, took no pride,
In what men brought as sacrifice. 
He’d no desire for bloody meat,
But gave man fire,
The gods and Titans seethed. 
They crucified Prometheus,
And let the eagle pierce his side. 
His punishment for helping men. 
And so he sacrificed himself,
To make man finally free. 
So by his gift, we are content,
(Who worships the Olympians?)

Of Odin and Prometheus,
Both sacrificed themselves,
One for himself, and one for man,
One for our life,
And one for greater sacrifice. 
So of these gods,
Which one is Christ?

Triumphal Entry

Let me tell you how it really was, 
That day in the smelly streets,
Which reeked of sewage, plus
The offal of slaughtered sheep,
And Jesus rode in on a donkey,
On a stolen foal at that.
Unbroken, untested, dying of fright,
And it staggered under the unfamiliar burden,
The burden that was supposed to be light. 
The terror of the newness of it all,
Shines in it’s equine eyes. 
And it was so small, so comically small,
That Christ’s feet dragged in the dirty street. 
The twelve waiting with baited breath,
To catch the foal if it should flee. 
With barely contained mirth,
The crowds congregate,
To see the parade,
Looking out their windows and doors,
Some entertainment to lighten their morning chores. 
And who first hailed the Christ,
With “Hosana in the highest”?
It might have been in true belief,
Or perhaps sung out in irony,
And as the thousands gathered,
And waved their date palm fronds,
Which sang like mighty waters,
With their rushing sound,
And casting down their cloaks,
Across the filthy cobbles. 
So the foal tripped across the tangled cloth,
She broke with terror at the commotion. 
So there was Christ -- clinging to it’s back,
As the foal bucked and ran,
Jesus tried his best to keep his seat,
Christ clinging with his fists, 
To the donkey’s main, 
While struggling to keep his tunic down,
So as not to expose himself. 
The twelve running to and fro,
Waving arms to ward the donkey off,
And snatching at the lead,
And hold the foal in place. 
And Jesus is laughing so hard,
His side hurts. 
His hands cramping from gasping too tight. 
As he tries to calm the donkey's fears.
And the crowds keep yelling “Hosanna.”
Cause this is the most fun they’ve had in years. 
Of all the wild and wacky things,
The streets of Jerusalem have seen,
This one rates with the weirdest. 
And the priest found it so profane,
They tried to shut the party down. 
There was no triumph in the entry,
Everyone laughed until they cried. 
This was a picture of the comic Christ. 
Here was no king except,
Perhaps the king of fools,
An idiot who’d get himself killed,
For daring to love the world. 

Fog

I cry to God in fear and great distress,
As swirling fog surrounds the path I press.
Oppressive in its thickness and so dense,
I cannot see a couple paces hence.
I grope, I stumble, sweating, going pale,
What dangers lurk behind this foggy veil?
My breath is close, my senses all are void,
And if I stumble, I will be destroyed.

“How can I walk this pilgrim's way You set,
When by such homicidal fog beset?
How can I walk where You have bid me to,
When all this murky fog obscures my view?
Oh, curse this fog, and damn it all to hell!
Dispel its blinders that I might see well.
Lord, exorcise its presence from my life,
For I must see if I'm to follow Christ.”

And so I prayed in anger and in fear,
Yet still the fog drew ever nearer here.
I prayed, I raged, again, again I cursed;
“Lord, drive this hateful fog from off Your earth!”
“My son,” and with His voice, His calming hand.
“You do not need to see, because I can.
I will not let you stumble, fall, or die.
My fog obscures no danger from my eye.”

His wings folded around me, and I flew.
He placed me on the heights that I might view,
The valley, and the path that I must walk,
With awe and with new eyes I view the fog.
It settles on the lowest places first,
A ghostly arm, embracing humble earth.
And round the checker-board of autumn fields,
Or over naked stream-beds forms a shield.

It buttresses the bases of the hills,
And round the falling, golden leaves it spills.
And with its fog, diffuses sovereign light,
To soften all the sun might touch and blight.
“Oh Lord, I do not need to see to know,
This world which moves by the design of God.
Though it's obscure to me when I'm below,
I recognize Your beauty in this fog.”