Chapter 73 A man from Lebanon nine centuries later

Lord, great singer, The master of Song Daozhiyan! Since your hasty visit we greet briefly, I was born seven times and died seven times. Now I am born again, Thinking of the days and nights in the mountains, When your tide lifts us up. Afterwards I crossed many lands and seas, Wherever saddle or sail takes me, Your name is used in prayer or argument. People bless you or curse you, A curse, nothing more than a protest against failure; Blessing is a hymn made by pig hands: Sing when he comes back from the mountains to bring delicious food for his wife.Your friends are still with us, giving us comfort and solidarity, and your enemies are still there, giving us strength and confidence.Your mother is with us,

I saw her expression on the faces of all the mothers. She gently rocked the cradle with her hands, and gently put on the mortuary clothes for the dead with her hands.Mary Magdalene is still among us, who tasted the vinegar of life, and drank the wine of life afterwards. Judas, who is suffering and has petty ambitions, also walks on the earth. Even now, when he is hungry and hopeless, he still holds his own food and finds his "big self" from self-war.John, the beauty-loving youth, is here too, Although no one paid attention to his singing, he still sang.Reckless Simon Peter, who disowns you, and lives longer for you, sits by our fireside; and may he disown you again before the next dawn,

But he was willing to be crucified for you, and said he was not worthy of the honor.Caiaphas and Annas continued in their old ways, Judge the guilty and the innocent, They sleep soundly on couches covered with feathers, And the one they judged was getting a great whipping. The woman who was captured during the construction, And walk the streets of our cities, She yearns for baked wood, Enduring loneliness in an empty room. Pontius Pilate is here too, standing before you in awe, still questioning you; But he dared not risk his position, I dare not ignore the power of alien races,

He was still washing his hands. To this day, Jerusalem still holds the basin, and Rome still holds the jug, Thousands of hands between the two places are waiting to be washed. Lord, great poet, Master of the words that have been sung! People built temples to shelter your name, Raise your cross on every high place, As a sign to guide their wavering feet, But not to win your favor. Thy joys are mountains beyond their sight, And it doesn't make them feel comfortable. They would honor the incomprehensible, And a man like them, If you are as good as they are, Or a deity with equal love,

His mercy is no different from theirs, What consolation can such a person or spirit bring? They do not honor the man, the living, That opened eyes, with unshakable gaze, irrelevant.The first man to gaze at the sun, no, they don't want him, and they don't want to be his fellow.They will not be known, they will walk in solitary ranks, they will bear sorrow, their sorrow, they will not be soothed by your joys, their aching hearts will not seek comfort in your songs, they will be silent and not The pain of forming makes them lonely and unvisited creatures.Although they are among their relatives and relatives, they live in fear with no one to accompany them.However, they don't want to be alone. When the west wind blows, they will bow to the east.They call you king, they want to enter your court, they name you Messiah, they want to anoint themselves with holy oil, sniff, they want to live upon your life.

Lord, great singer!Your tears are like the rain of May, your smile like the waves of the vast sea, and when you speak, your words are the distant whispers when their lips are burning with fire. You laughed for their marrow that was not yet ready to laugh, you wept for their eyes that were still dry, your voice cultivated their thoughts and perceptions, your voice nourished their words and breath.I was born seven times and died seven times, Now I rise again, and I see you, warrior of warriors, poet of poets, king above all kings, half-naked among your fellow travelers.Every day there are bishops who bow their heads and say your name.Every day a beggar begs, "For Jesus' sake, give me a penny for a loaf of bread." Each of us begs each other, but we are begging you.In the spring of our needs and desires, like a surging high tide, when our autumn comes, like a retreating low tide, we all call your name whether we are high or low: Master of infinite mercy!Lord, master of our lonely hours!Here and there, between cradle and tomb, I have met your silent brothers, the unfettered free men, your mother Earth and son of the universe.They are like the birds of the air, and like the lilies of the field.They live your life and ponder your thoughts.They echo your singing.However, they were empty-handed, and they did not suffer the great pain of being crucified, which is also their pain.The world crucifies them every day in insignificant ways, and the heavens are not shocked by it, and the earth does not ache for the dead.They were tortured, but no one witnessed their suffering. They looked around, but they couldn't find anyone who promised them a place in their kingdom.But they are willing to suffer this torture again and again, hoping that your God will be their God, and your father will be their father.Lord, great lover!In fragrant enclosures the princess waits for your coming, the married celibate in her cage, the prowling whore in her shameful street, the husbandless nun in her convent, the childless woman One waits at the window: the frost forms a forest pattern on her glass, she sees you in this harmonious painting,

She wants to caress and comfort you like a mother.Lord, great poet, master of our silent desires!The heart of the world beats with your heart, but it does not burn for your songs; The world sits and listens to you with quiet pleasure, but it does not rise up and climb the ledge of your mountain.Man will dream your dreams, but will not wake to your dawn—his greater dreams; He will watch with your eyes, but he will not come with heavy steps to your throne.On the contrary, there are many people enthroned as kings in your name, promoted to bishops with your power, and use your precious presence to make the crowns they wear and the powers they hold in their hands.Lord, master of light!Your eyes are on the groping fingers of the blind, and you are still despised and ridiculed, saying that you are too weak to be a god, a god with too much humanity to worship.The masses and hymns they say, the vows and prayers they make, are for their imprisoned selves, and you are their still-distant selves, their distant call, their passion.But lord, lord with a big heart, ride on our more beautiful dream!You are still advancing today, bows and arrows and spears can not stop your footsteps, you walk through our arrow forest, you look down and smile at us, although you are the youngest of us, you take care of us like a father everyone.O poet, O singer, O great heart!May our God bless your name, the womb that conceived you, the breast that nourished you.May God forgive us all.