The call to die
resounds alarmingly within my heart—
But how can I walk the land of the living
as one dead?
How can the heavenly ghost endure
the casual comings and goings
of the common man?

With one foot, I run to You
With the other, I run away
I come so close,
tip-toeing along the brink of the edge
where I know I must plunge head-first
into the crevasse—
One does not merely trip onto the altar

He holds the dagger above His holy, all-knowing head
I welcome the sting of the blade,
the cutting of the self,
the purging of this spotted heart—
and yet,
when the edge becomes immediate,
I flinch—
I flee,
crying, Father of Abraham,
Why me?

Why must I be given
the gift
of intimacy?

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