"I could make three tents."

"I Could Make Three Tents"


Too sad to fight temptation,
we are sleeping for sorrow
then, the most malicious kiss.
through the air the priest's servant
hears my own sword hiss and then
that bloody ear hears no more.
but even with his own torture impending,
Jesus touches his ear.
So the servant surveys, "My God!
This man is about to be slaughtered
in a way so inhumane,
yet he regards
my
problem
my
wound and
my
pain."

My Lord is taken away 
without dragging his heels
but goes ever so easily
as if on wheels.

Then I find a village bonfire
I warm myself
I hide myself
with eyes wide and
thrice from my lips
my best friend I deny.

Now with my own ears,
which never had to be healed by my Lord
or had to listen to spitting scorn
with ears that didn't have to be split open and torn
with a king's royal round of thorns,
I hear a roo-koo-koo-koo-koo.
sob, drop my sword
spitting out the
bitter flu which
caused me to say
"I am not his!"
I bet He's thirsty now.
He is.


Tell the Disciples and Peter that He is, that He lives.

Is your love for me true?
I love you, sure it is.
Is your love for me real?
It is, yes, it is!
Is your love for me legitimate?
My Lord, you know it is.