Water from rocks and manna-soaked socks
And quail in my locks, still a 40-year clock
I wait at the dock yet my ship never stocks.
39 more years I’ll hang on this block
“This one bring you luck!”
But luck is a crock
And I’m staring at walls that tick and then tock
And then a dismissive obsessive regressive tock
Walking alone while I die with a flock
Will Jesus come save me or will Buddha just mock?
A whisper is heard, “I stand here and knock”
But hope seems elusive and this door won’t unlock
“Extricate me from sedentary before my soul rots!
I want to be more than some stain or ink blot!!”
“What is that in your hand?” Hope or a rock?
If only I could just touch the hem of His frock
At the head of the line, at the feet of the altar
Where upon rests my gaze, there upon begins my falter
In the face of adversity and some purposeless scene
Where upon rests my hope, thereupon lies my peace.