The Apostle Paul wrote

The return of Jesus was

Soon and very soon–

In his lifetime, in fact.

The fact that it was not

Is not one to overlook,

Especially if you believe

In biblical inerrancy

Or the infallibility of

The scared book of God,

Written down for all

Mankind to read and by

Which to abide in all times.

If the Good Book, however,

Has even but one measure

Of error or fallibility,

How can it be as infallible

Or inerrant as they say

And do not deny it to be?

I have found the Book of Life

To be one written in sand–

Or, if you will, the waters–

By feet that tread upon

Or that hand that sweeps

Across the face of the earth:

From which we are all dirt,

Wrought of flames and fires

As well as the aging tomorrows

That throw back to yesteryear’s

Memories of the present moment

In which we now live by

The immaculate grace of God,

Who has written upon

All of our hearts the Word,

Which is inscribed in spirit

And in blood upon the flesh–

For all of God is incarnate

In the nature of the creature,

Lest God not be Creator of all,

And we should all fall

As fallen creatures of dam-

Nation against damnation.

Write now your book of life,

Lest in the strife you forget

To live, and to live again,

Like those born anew–

Or, if you will, born again.

For each moment of the present

Is a gift of grace of the

Almighty God whose reach is

Beyond the fathoming of our

Deep, well-worn pits and holes

(In which we dwell like

Neanderthals, whose fall

Is not unlike the dew,

Which does renew

The earth with its blood).

Thus, when Paul the Apostle

Wrote thus as he did,

Did he know he was writing

A script for so many

By which to abide, even

Long after the coming tide

Was set in motion by the

Ailing moon, which has yet

To set upon the earth in

Its nocturnal mirth–like

A drunken sailor singing

At the moon, hollowing

As the alleycat that never

Stops off mewing, while

All the world stops for

Sleep, trying to nod off

And wear off the haggard

Haze of yesterday’s

Drunken rows? Till

That Day, then, when

All shall be ended with

A shout and a triumph,

And a nodding of the head,

A closing of the eyes,

And a sympathetic emptying

Of the soul,

I will tread the sand

With unshod feet and

Write whispers in the

Wind, like dragging my

Finger across the face

Of the Deep.