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 down, around.
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.