The king is dead: long live the King
the messiah He came and went
while we were listening to the radio:

wearing blue suede shoes,
swooning with puppy love
poodles on our skirts,
cigarette packs in our T-shirt sleeves

grease and fenders in our hair
We thought us fair.

He was it. Eternal love.
wide and smooth, the open road

we saw his eyes
— a flare —
his hips a trick of the air
his lips curled hair

But the sod king died sitting down,
trying to become empty

singing:

"rock of ages lay on me
your stone fingers"

"wash my feet of dirty days:
release me to my fate"

He gave it all over the airwaves
his body, it covered all skins

He bore our love like a cross
of stones thrown from our eyes

all-giving his being,
bleeding from heartwounds of adoration
Lances from glances.

a boy born to die alone,
loved without end.
shrouded by crowds
the pouring-on of hands

upon his wooden bed he laid his head
and millions sang:

"Rock of ages, lay on me"

He is the rock. Son of sons
he comes to save, to bind up wounds
to wash away our sins of love

He is ours, we are his:
he cannot die — He lives.