John the Baptist.
Jan 22nd, 2011 by erjones
His name is John.
A tough life he’s led,
partly by choice,
to be sure.
His daily companions, honey bees,
and a rude belching camel,
who, when she finally breathed her foul-mouthed last,
gave up her pelt to cover his back
through the icy chill of desert nights.
Oh yes, the desert freezes.
The sun beats down, baking to a crisp all day,
chapping lips and drying tears, and salting cheeks
so that the night frost can then bite to the marrow,
and chill the mind.
John is his name,
wildman his calling.
It’s no wonder,
given his birth to a silenced prophet and a wise crone
both convinced by an angel that he was
formed awefully, fearfully in his mother’s womb
expressly to overthrow
the comfortable numbness of quietism,
to uproot hypocrisy with scorching speech as searing as the desert sun
and to foretell divine judgment with the icy candour of a desert moon.
Wild eyed John,
matted- haired, stick-ribbed John,
searching the desert sands for that
narrowest of highways
upon which the sandalled feet of God’s Anointed
would trample
all injustice in his Advent.
John is his name
“Repent!” is his logo.
Change! Begin Again!
John is his name.
Baptizer is his trade.
Waist deep in the rocky Jordon,
thrusting heads under brackish water,
clutching slick, newborn hands
grasping for air, for life.
Until the sandal-footed Anointed One
comes.
©Elisabeth R. Jones, 2008. 2011
His daily companions, honey bees,
and a rude belching camel,
who, when she finally breathed her foul-mouthed last,
gave up her pelt to cover his back
through the icy chill of desert nights.
Oh yes, the desert freezes.
The sun beats down, baking to a crisp all day,
chapping lips and drying tears, and salting cheeks
so that the night frost can then bite to the marrow,
and chill the mind.
John is his name,
wildman his calling.
It’s no wonder,
given his birth to a silenced prophet and a wise crone
both convinced by an angel that he was
formed awefully, fearfully in his mother’s womb
expressly to overthrow
the comfortable numbness of quietism,
to uproot hypocrisy with scorching speech as searing as the desert sun
and to foretell divine judgment with the icy candour of a desert moon.
Wild eyed John,
matted- haired, stick-ribbed John,
searching the desert sands for that
narrowest of highways
upon which the sandalled feet of God’s Anointed
would trample
all injustice in his Advent.
John is his name
“Repent!” is his logo.
Change! Begin Again!
John is his name.
Baptizer is his trade.
Waist deep in the rocky Jordon,
thrusting heads under brackish water,
clutching slick, newborn hands
grasping for air, for life.
Until the sandal-footed Anointed One
comes.
©Elisabeth R. Jones, 2008. 2011
