"However minute the employment may appear, of analysing lines into syllables, and whatever ridicule may be incurred by a solemn deliberation upon accents and pauses, it is certain that without this petty knowledge no man can be a poet."

                                                                                                                   -- Samuel Johnson

                   Messianic



Consider the chalice: both what I seek
and where I find, believing Savior's blood
was laced with meter and rhyme-- my antique
sacrament.
                  Whittle toothpicks from my rood,
store them safe in baggies.  Probe stigmata--
these wounds were borne to suffer scrutiny.
Dissect and splice fourteen strands of data;
affect the modern state of entropy
in Faith and matter.  Break it
                                            all
                                                  down.
Explain cumulonimbus from a God-
shaped cloud, ignoring iambs in the sound
of thunder.  Drown out cadence as you plod
rhetorically, arguing rain from skies.
Disbelieve in my blood.  Stone me with sighs.