My name is not Jesus
I can’t walk on water, but never tried –
it would be an act of vanity to succeed.
Besides, my feet would not fit inside
the little pail I must carry with me,
full of leaks. Someone is always there
with a cup; my throat is parched,
but they never give any back. Could this
be the rumoured water of life?
I can’t feed the multitudes on two fish
or turn water to wine, it’s already gone
as ransom to covetous kings, who loiter
in the clouds and gloat how high they are,
how far they can see. And they ignore
how far I hope they will fall.
I can’t heal the blind, the lame, the lost,
that requires faith beyond mine.
Tongues speaking forked languages
have forgotten how to listen,
there is nothing I can teach of the ways
of living that they will accept.
I can’t even know with any faith,
they will leave me unmolested
when I am holding out the last drop
of trembling water on the tip of my finger.
But then, pardon will not be mine to give.
I can’t summon god’s grace, only my wrath.
As I said,
my name is not Jesus.
LMC