When I started writing, I always maintained that I wanted to honour Christ, but a secret sly side of me wanted Him to honour me.
Something like an apple for the teacher.
Things are different now. Really bad things are happening in my body (as is, I need a couple of ice-cold drinks to reduce the lymph-node swelling in my neck long enough to let me try to eat).
And the tumour I tore is bleeding, and not stopping.
I don't care about my honour.
All I need is a hand to get Home.
I wonder if He laughed inside
when He heard from John and James,
who wanted, both to sit beside
His throne, with honoured names.
Did He giggle at the competition
that did from the others spring?
The point that they were truly missing,
the purpose behind the whole darn thing.
The road to Earth's salvation
would be washed in the Lamb's own blood,
and not in their worst imagination
could the Apostles foresee the flood.
Whose chair's where is a world-conceit;
floor's good for me, at His feet.
Music from Soul Asylum, with Runaway Train, a really lovely ballad.