In His Own Image

In His Own Image
I see you standing there, rheumy eyes,
looking down on me.
What is it, what is it,
what is it that you see ?

A pitiful wretch, a worthless form
that mars your view below?
Or something less, or something more,
Please tell me which is so.

I need to know just what I am,
and was, and yet may be.
My heart confused, I’m lost,
I’m lost, oh can’t you see?

Please share with me my twisted views,
speak through me and then,
please speak to me of what may be,
in voice above the din.

A voice came forth without a source,
that broke the deafening roar
of emptiness and endlessness,
of life and heaven’s door.

“I am your son, your mother too;
I’m a preacher, I’m a whore.
I’m light that shines out through the gloom,
I’m you and so much more.”

“I’m Adam’s son and Ruth’s first born,
all shades beyond the pale.
I’m path to everlasting life,
the good book tells my tale."

I sit alone in quietude;
the voice has quelled my rage.
But not alone - I’ve been assured,
and I slowly turn the page.