Lettered Lazarus

On a pew immutable,
I’m a dry cuticle
praying to be shorn;
her wish—stillborn.

Father, we thank thee
Father, we thank thee
Thank the Father fittingly.

O’ Lord, hear my plea,
set me free on the sea
where I may drown
while mermaids frown.

Father, we thank thee
Father, we thank thee
Thank the Father fittingly.

I’m a tree full of fruit,
solitary and destitute.
Over paths of divination
shepherd me to cremation.

Father, we thank thee
Father, we thank thee
Thank the Father fittingly.

Amidst the flames of my pyre,
I’ll rise from creation’s fire.
Catapulted by currents of invention,
a lettered Lazarus in ascension.