Antiphon III

The gift of grace, torn from this thorned side is burden then bliss.

That thorn, though nature given, derides the weary soul, entreating each to his demise.

That we should wither in sin stained agony, as if it were not just one, but one thousand barbs choking flesh.

Yet, we are given knowledge to combat such bramble as man's heart invites.
The stained veil of scrupulosity used to wipe the wearied mind,
The thorn-crowned head stooped to view our soul's true cost,
Water from hallowed flank to cleanse the ailing mind.

Necessary fault, O happy inequity, that through exultant pain salvation should be born to most unworthy man.

All Fade Back to Zakk...

Panic Attackz, I haz um...

Tonight, I had a very odd experience that I have decided was a panic attack. I went to the store to pick up dinner, met a homeless man in the process came home and ate. Soon there after I can only describe the experience as skin-crawling discomfort, nausea, extreme depression etc. A phone call to therapist, cup of tea, talk with wife and back to relatively sane "normal" Zakk.

I am generally not prone to this type of behavior but a while back I did have a panic attack that was caused by some medication. At any rate, am back together... Not sure the trigger, Chinese food and homeless people? At any rate, let us pray that this does not happen again any time soon.

Antiphon II

The word, made flesh calls us as one.
Separate in body and mind, yet one in spirit.

Though shades oft compel the illusion of a fractured whole,
Glory's sun compels self to unite as substance within the glamor of accidents.

Compelled through man's first wrong to revel in what divides
We, through earthly treatment - ill and toil,
find solace not in imagined difference but in oneness.

As by Thy Son, faith's shades' dark night is dispelled,
We come to see not our worldly division, but more fully thy face reflected.

Antiphon I

Lord, Your sanctuary burns my sallow sin-stained skin its beauty pains my eyes

Your antiphon is too hard to sing it chokes my smoke-filled lungs

Your sacrifice stings my selfish heart

Your gifts are lost in my feeble grip


We, your chosen are lost, addled by our own device.
We cannot bear to take the withered hand, to heal the wounded heart.
Our sickened nobility built on brethren's pain and widow's mite.
We stand with vulgar pride upon the lives of better souls.
To conquer with cruel word and deed ourselves in shallow might.