A Gothic Steeple of His Ribs
Sing my tongue.
Pange lingua Gloriosi
Sing my tongue, The Savior’s glory
Lest it recite a psalm against the back of his teeth
Finding salvation in the tabernacle of his mouth
Taking the eucharist of his tongue
Corporis mysterium
Of His Flesh, the mystery sing
Lest my hands ponder the mysteries of his flesh
Writing a litany of wants against his scars
Praising His name as I kiss his chest
Sanguinisque pretiosi
Of His Blood, all price exceeding
Lest my teeth exact a sacred drop from his lips
Pleading forgiveness with a bite
Earning grace with the flush of his cheeks
Quem in mundi pretium
Shed by our Immortal King
Lest my eyes map his body as he sheds his clothes
Praying that I might be permitted to touch
Seeking absolution against the altar of his jaw
Fructus ventris generosi
Destined, for the world's redemption
Lest I forever lay in the sin of his body
Atoning with my head between his legs
Confessing future sins, whispered in his ear
Rex effudit gentium
From a noble womb to spring.
Lest I turn from His light to the shadow of his arms
Forgetting His sacrifice for his mouth
Forsaking Him for him.
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