Asher Blake’s Praise Poem #18


Praise Poem #18

Dread goes high, higher, Avraham,
how I’m dead and fear’s fatal gleam
meets my eye. And the final lick
of light in me has shut,
gone in raised harvest of hair and knowledge
off my body. Now I know the certain
darkness feels for something there,
smothered by the weight
of the night-fell-angel
forced the other way, to swear
by that boy, Struggle, getting blessings
for himself, the prince, so that
the horn of Israel did get it,
and his shaggy twin by bullish power
was thrown, his assumptions,
my son to starlight multiplies,
and saves Israel, the caravan light of Israel.

Oh august Lord God above,
please accept
my hand is coming,
your water, we wash always in your
water, you are why I always wash
the feet first and hands, then dishes,
the couches and the counters after.

Oh great Father, please accept my child,
the holy fruit of steady prayer.
Even father Avraham said,
Lord, let Ishmael live before you!

Dear Lord, Holy One Hashem,
please accept my son for love,
favor him and bind him
in your sign, cut off his foreskin
in the power of your knowledge.
By dread of you, we gain relief
and live, and read a sentence of
graven letters and are written –
in the Book of Life.

There is a surgeon’s skull cap,
pulling back the tenderness,
it lends him greater manhood,
so there is a foreskin for the circumcised,
something nails, some immodesty, a brazen
camouflage bandanna against the head,
the band of men appearing to take God,
Lord of stars, and nail Him,
kill your breath, then curse.

But there is also the call irrevocable,
and the fair song, singing,
praising breath.
We find through a little
side angled door, a seal
in Him forever. Go
past the fear of rejection;
go into the luscious manhood
of the vine and branches heavy pruned
by the Father who counted His Son’s blood
sacred, who created this means of worship
strong enough to bear the weight of rescue.

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