Man of Dust

Beneath the constellation lights,

That weep and mourn above the heights,

Where winds beat down some wicked souls,

And nails eat up some wicked souls,

And mountains crumble low to earth,

There lies a man of virgin birth.

This man is prostrate, naked, cut;

Heaven’s wide gates for him are shut,

In which dwell sinners, prostitutes—

Praise God with lips as loud as mute’s.

His soul is lead, his body rust,

His name and worth is likewise: “Dust.”

Parched lips move of their own accord,

But tongues that lie are pierced by sword.

The weight of sin destroys his chest:

Rightly judged, he beats his breast.

Forward, on his face he falls,

For gnashing teeth his name then call.

Tempted, even Angels fall;

On stilz a tiny mouse is tall;

No matter what good act is done,

Dust doth remain, esteemed by none.

Dust: trampled beneath spiteful feet,

His bones disperse on bloody streets.

Beneath the constellation mights

That weep and mourn and set their sights

On drunkards, thieves, and prostitutes

That each, in sorrow, their heart shoots.

A suicide in hate or lust,

This man must die, this man of Dust.