I would bear a crown of thorns,
nails through my hands and feet
insults hurled upon me,
even being forsaken by my creator
in that darkest night upon the cross
if crucifixion had to happen just once,
to rise from dying.

But most of my internal life has been
suicide of the soul committed a hundred times a minute,
steady as the woodpecker’s percussion against bark,
a dirge across a desert.

It might look like I am calmly
standing in line at the grocery store,
yet I am awash in self-righteousness, judging the shopper’s
junk food on the convey belt in front of me.
I might be nodding my head in apparent agreement,
but internally I am trading an eye for an eye.
I could be offering you something with my right hand,
yet with my left, I am moving my fingers,
the tax man, tallying what you owe me.

I wish I could say my life has been a walk in the park,
but really the cliches that describe my inner being
have more to do with defecation-
a shit show, crap shoot, at best, a hot mess.

The above is the story I have been telling,
my Old and Not-so-New Testament.
Here is what I am learning-
not always.
Even if I fail to turn the other cheek,
loathing my enemies and myself
a thousand times an hour,
I am beginning to notice
a soft stirring between sufferings.

Grace arrives like a hummingbird at the bright feeder,
there for an instant and then gone,
there again, a flash of wing.