In the midnight hour
The words I have suppressed
Will not rest
Their failed utterance increases the distance
Between the practical and ethical
Between the practical and ethical
That distance
Grows like spaces left
From rotted planks
On a rope bridge
Strung over a river whose waters
Flow with the remnants of my identity
Truth's crucifixion spills the blood of freedom
Dripping out the nailed pierced hands of Christ
Or it burst open through the bowels
Of a suicidal traitor whose death rope
Could not support the weight of
30 pieces of silver
Clinging to his pragmatically deluded heart
Either way truth speaks
But how will it speak through me
Will I have the Faith to heed justice's
Demand for articulation
In the face of reduced materialism
Or I has a comfortable couch
Seized my ability to do what is right
The morning light
Will give rise to resurrection or remorse
As I seek God's chosen course
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