Gethsemane Preacher on a Saturday Night

preacher strains,
sweat dripping like
Jesus’ garden blood.
somebody help him
with a shout
praise or life lifted
out hell. preacher no
pimp. he love the folk,
all their sadness
gladness badness
madness, his cross
to bear in midnight
hour when he prays,
sweats out blood,
face embedded
in carpet and clasping
hands, for their souls
and his own.
begs God,
who often seem
deaf to plea,
but shows up,
right on time,
for a word to turn
things around,
for his sin burdened
flock, sun folk who know
not who they are.
oh Lord help
the preacher.
folk
want potions
magic incantations
to bend God,
not devotion.
he keep on straining
out the Lord’s Word
dropped in
sleep deprived soul,
pleading to be
filled
with the Spirit,
fire tongues
in upper room,
little office
a few feet from
pulpit where he
will preach healing
and deliverance,
chains snapped
from captivity,
exodus through
red sea of buried slaves
more free than survivors
sitting in pews. he pray
and pray, may
yokes be broke,
of resurrected folk,
stone be rolled from souls
enslaved in graves, fire
shut up in bones flare
in moans of awakening,
until bones live
in power to holy dance
in valley of weeper songs
and warrior shouts,
tongues are spoken yes,
fire tongues are spoken,
ears hear/ old Holy Ghost
of Harriet and Nat
cast out fear and despair-
demons/ banish devils,
to exile in fire
in these last days
before departure
to ancient and future Zion,
shouts of acclamation loose,
sweaty heads raise/ hands lift/ all rise
and Pentecost commence,
in the name, of the Jesus
he know, amen.