And I felt the power leave me, the instant she touched my hem. And her fingers traced a pattern, like writing in the sand. And it never seemed so easy: Father, Spirit, Son, Amen. Brother, nothing really matters. Just surrender to it, man.
And I’ve never felt so lonely, though you touch me with your hands, With the plainness of some virgin, smoking outside with the band. And if your family tries to stone me, let the sinless lend a hand; I bet some bastard throws the first one while you’re writing in the sand.
But I see the wounds you carry: they are not much different than Son abandoned by his Father, left to die just like a man. There are regions of my memory I want to access, but I can’t. When two mirrors face each other, the image loops forever, and Though I felt the power leave me the instant she touched my hem, I’ll be damned if I lie down there with the lion and the lamb. But it never seemed so easy: Father Spirit, Son, Amen. Brother, nothing really matters when you’re writing in the sand.