Black Jesus

Wasn’t nailed to a cross

But he we was hanged

By his neck

From a tree in

Mississippi

He died…

But he rose

In me…

 

He’s come back

Not as slave

But a soldier

Buffalo…

Wool Traded

For a mane…

No longer a lamb

But a Lion

Setting the stones

For a New Zion –

Where freedom

Is a reality

And Peace is

More than Martin’s Dream

Sagging and syrupy

Or Malcom’s passion

And militancy

Where  justice

Rolls down like

Waters…

 

Black Jesus

Was not nailed

To a cross

But he died

On the street

Shredded by the bullets

Of the police

He died

But He rose again

In me.

 

He’s come back

As a warrior

and He will

Die no more

reborn with

Kevlar on His chest

and a titanium core

A vigilant sage

Tempered by rage

Scribing pages

Apocalyptic im-ages

Slaying the pale-rider

The beast, and his wife

Whore, bug-eyed and

Gorged on pestilence and war…

 

Black Jesus

Wasn’t nailed to a cross

But he we was hanged

By his neck

From a tree in

Mississippi

He died…

didn’t He die?

But he rose

In me.

 

©A.Mixon

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