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