Margins

“I go to the heart,” he said.
“Where could that be?” they said.
“Is it to the temple, where our souls are fed?
Or is it the zealots, whose passion is red?
Or is it the king, our temporal head?”
“No, that isn’t the heart,” he said.

“I go to my love,” he said.
“Who could that be?” they said.
“Is it to God, are you on your deathbed?
Or is a woman, and you are to be wed?
Or is it your family, from whom you are bred?”
“No, my love is not bound,” he said.

“I go to my heart, to my love, to my own.
I go where the wings of my spirit have flown.
I go where I’ve been understood and I’ve grown.
I go to the edge.”

“It’s the edge of the market, the edge of the street,
The edge of the synagogue, where hopeless ones meet.
On the edge of my comfort, on the edge of my seat,
I bring the good news.”

“And as they are healed, I am healed, we are whole.
I serve, and they share with the towel and the bowl.
For this is my calling and it’s also your role.
Together we’re free.”

“So come, let’s build bridges between and across,
The ones who’ve known faith and the ones who’ve known loss,
My heart and my love carry me through the cross
To be risen for all.”