THE Manicheans did no idols make.
Without themselves, nor worship gods of wood;
Yet idols did in their Ideas take,
And figured Christ as on the cross He stood.
Thus did they when they earnestly did pray,
Till clearer faith this idol took away:

We seem more inwardly to know the Son,
And see our own salvation in His blood.
When this is said, we think the work is done,
And with the Father hold our portion good,
As if true life within these words were laid
For him that in life never words obeyed.

If this be safe, it is a pleasant way,
The cross of Christ is very easily borne;
But six days labour makes the sabbath day,
The flesh is dead before grace can be born,
     The heart must first bear witness with the book,
     The Earth must burn, ere we for Christ can look.

Fulke Greville  (1554-1628)

And you hath he quickened, who were dead in trespasses and sins;
Wherein in time past ye walked according to the course of this world,
according to the prince of the power of the air…

Ephesians 2:1-2

This sacramental hymn I raise
To humankind’s most holy part:
An orifice deserving praise
Of men, of angels, and of art.
From whence the winds of sudden woe
Like nauseating tempests blow…

The lofty thoughts you entertain
With one release must fall to earth.
Relieving your digestive pain,
The Prince of Power has given birth;
Infernal thoughts ascend the air
And spread the fragrance everywhere.

Between warm cheeks, the puckered hole
Emits a putrid warning blast.
The sanctification of your soul,
Delayed, declares: the first is last.
Proud flatulence must have its say
And then diffuse itself away . . .

A host of foul malodorous themes
And sighing zephyrs from your rear
Now interrupts the sacred dreams,
Repelling neighbors standing near;
And spreading, as ideals die
Threaten—and then insult the sky.

Your vocal anus renders moot
Such dignities you might possess
When human nature’s rotten fruit
Emits its fragrance, to express
Thine own true self, vile, carnal, raw—
And so makes known your inner law.

Then covet not your neighbor’s ass—
(Your own deserves sufficient blame
For letting forth a cloud of gas
That vexes with disgust and shame.)
Such rude emissions fairly quench
All high ideals in gastric stench.

Speak not of the Sublime, nor Art
When putrefaction blows the trump.
Your flesh has spoken in a fart:
Foul thunder from your sounding rump…
Similar to a dying breath:
Your soul exhaled in stench of death.

How then to stand before the Judge,
You gaseous mess, you bag of stools?
He will not lie, nor hold a grudge—
But atheists He labels fools.
So try your best. Blow frankincense.
(Your flatulence is mere pretense.)

PROMPT 16: write a poem in which you describe something that cannot speak, and what it has taught or told you.