The man on the middle cross said I could come. - Begg
I walk through the morning -
dew holding to the grass like a thought
that refuses to let go -
and I remember the story of the thief.
How simple it was.
How undone.
No altar call, no hymn swelling
like a promise in the throat -
just one man dying beside another,
and the sky dark as mercy.
He said, you can come.
Just that.
As though all the laws of heaven
had loosened their collars,
and the gates, tired of grandeur,
had simply opened.
I want to understand it -
that quiet permission,
that thunder-soft yes
given to someone who never learned
the right words.
And I am wrecked by it.
Because I don’t know
how to make anyone - him -
say it to me.
How to be let in
without explaining myself,
without being good,
without knowing the doctrine
or the way my own heart
keeps missing the note.
Still, the fields shine.
Still, a crow lifts off the fence post
as if it has been forgiven.
And I stand here,
hands empty,
saying to no one and to everything:
let me come, too.
Let me come.
GBS
2005
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