O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.
The Ark shall be the ark which bears one burden
within the temples temple but a shell
before the tomb tight sealed there is a curtain
which separates your heaven from my hell,
wherein your god, my demon, but your master,
who speaks to you at night within your dreams,
Josiah, you sail headlong to disaster
upon the flood of hate which from him streams.
The fountains of the deep he never opened
the rivers never ran as red as blood
Moses was his jailer not his spokesman
the lord of flies is but the lord of mud.
Upon the word of god you take your stand
who casts his foul shadow on the land.
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