Michael Adams		God's Son Lay Down   God's son walked down the street, His son walked down East Colfax Ave. on a Jan. morning, 1AM, in the snow, torn sneakers and an alto sax and nowhere to rest his head, nowhere except in the lap of an old junkie whore, and God's son lay down his dark head there,   Lay down his head on the altar of flesh weary of preaching love, offering his music of love. But no one hears – that we are all each other, and all one, and each of us is holy and the earth is holy, this old battered boot-worn holy earth.   But no one hears and so God's son lay down his head again to die and be reborn with the new day, reborn to preach his only commandment,   To love that old bum, that old drunk vet, that old woman smelling of vomit and despair who once was someone's daughter, and someone’s daughter on the street now – 15 years old and run-away, pregnant punching bag with needle nightmares,   His son lay down his head because no one wanted to hear about love, only about vengeance and sin,   And God's son lay down his weary head with it's undying burden of sorrow, which is no more or less than joy offered and not taken, lay down his weary head in a back alley in the snow in the lap of an old whore and blew softly, softly to his Father, the prayer of his music.