Let the skies rain down in brimstone!
Hide my body in the flame!
Slay me with the fire of mercy!
Ease my suffering and shame...
Lord, you know that I am weary!
And you know I’m not to blame:
So let the skies rain down in brimstone!
For I am born without a name.
All the people mock my mother.
They all say she was a whore!
Always sleeping with some sailor
Furloughing on distant shores.
Lord, you know how much they mock me!
And you know I’m not to blame:
So let the skies rain down in brimstone!
For I am born without a name.
Or let the mountains be my pillow.
Let the forests be my bed.
Make the starry night my blanket
When I lay down to rest my head.
Take me far away to freedom!
Or, if here I must remain:
Then let the skies rain down in brimstone!
For I am born without a name.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Lamentations Of A Bastard Child
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1 comment:
Freedom does seem far away, so let the brimstone rain. At least we're still alive, and existentially speaking, none of us are born with a name. Names are thrust upon us from without. I was moved by this one, Joel. Thanks.
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