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Christ found me lying in a garbage pit,

Spread-eagle as if spat down from a cross.

I sensed His presence, shook as with a fit,

Then growled that I had nothing to confess.

Christ laughed and knelt beside me in the slime

Like an old friend who'd heard that I was ill,

Then asked me if I'd tired of this game

Of acting like I'd never heard the still,

Small voice within me.


My tensed limbs grew slack

And my frown softened into naked fear.

I raised my hand and whispered I was stuck.

Christ nodded, but it seemed he couldn't hear

Me anymore; he had begun to pray.

I struggled in the slime. He walked away.


Jeff Holt