You crawl up into your bed and pull the worn thin blanket over your head trying hard to momentarily escape the touch you feel.
What is the worth of soul and skin?  Price plummets down as each one comes in. 
As if such short-armed men could ever reach that sacred place.


I am the God of Rahab  I see past flesh and culture.
Never do I mistake the songbird for the vulture.
Your life burns pure before my eyes.
I name the virgin and I crush the flies.
They dress you in scarlet, but all that I know, is child you are white as the snow.


Bangkok sun creeps out red-faced, but without shame.
It knits in fire upon the hills the purity of your name.
Other names are knitted too, but black the thread they form a noose rising slowly but steadily
a gallows for grown men to hang their hearts.


Pour from your soul the rice your family needs to eat.
Like Mary pouring oil on the Son of God's feet.
A child should sleep thru the dark in peace.
Another night's over light comes to the east.
Pull your blanket over your head, it's us who are dead.


I am the God of Rahab  I see past flesh and culture.
Never do I mistake the songbird for the vulture.
Your life burns pure before my eyes.
I name the virgin and I crush the flies.
They dress you in scarlet, but all that I know, is child you are white as the snow.


Sons & Daughters by Ballydowse