ĐĎॹá>ţ˙ tvţ˙˙˙s˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙ěĽÁ7 đżDbjbjUU p7|7|@˙˙˙˙˙˙l       ´Ş-Ş-Ş-Ş- ś-œ´\Pś^.^.^.^.^.^.^.^.’?”?”?”?5É? ÓG ÝO$Q 2SdP ^.^.^.^.^.Ph>  ^.^.Ph>h>h>^.Č ^. ^.’?h>^.’?h>h>†?  †?^.R. °Ĺ˜Ă­ÁĆ´ö,Ş-&1B †?†? ,P0\P†?–Sh>–S†?h>´´    Ů 2TrainsRap I “All aboard!” a voice cried out, The crowd rushed forward with a shout; the whistle blew, the steam out puffed, the clinkers clinked, the engine chuffed. (Refrain) This train! Oh this train! Don’t take no preachers, no Bible-totin’! This train! Oh this train! No public prayer, no gospel singin’! This train! Oh this train! Sheer vanity, but gets you there! This train! Oh this train! Climb aboard, Child, if you dare! The Gravy Train is par to none, you’re going to have a lot of fun! Drugs, sex, and anything you want, it goes; Where this train stops everybody acts like nobody knows. A judge got on, attorneys too, Their baggage stuffed with cash brand-new; In First Class sits a billionaire, his banker and his best lawyer. And there she is! That lovely lass! Miss USA sure has got class! Scholarshiped by U of Dub, she wears her crown in the hot tub. Drink up, boys! And do some drugs; This latest stuff has got some bugs; You might not see the coming day, but take the chance, man, anyway. Those blond-haired kids tied up and gagged--chickens that some trader bagged in a mall or out from school--they bring big bucks--oh, ain’t it cruel? Want a magazine of porn? The racks are filled like cribs with corn; Here’s “How to” on kinky sex, teens all use it for their text. Choose a movie from the list, Bette Midler’s never missed; Like some violence and gore? PG-flicks no longer bore; Anyone with a gay bent now can gang-bang, slice Clark Kent. Or how about an “Evening Star” whose PG-13 was an R; Shirley MacLaine had it changed (anything can be arranged). Up front there’s “Jump on the track” for those tripped out on crank and crack; What else is there when you’ve done all except to take the final fall? Tonight there’s Beefcake in the bar, add whipped cream,and he’ll go far; Mickey Mouse is on tee shirts; it adds some class to same-sex flirts. “I did it my way,” croons a lush as gay to gay connect and ush. Need some cash? Go play the slots; The tribal council’s upped the pots; Bingo, high-stakes gambling too, one-armed bandit, Topsy GREW! Gangs, oh, well, it’s just some phase these kids need to fill their days; Parents let them play at school, now they’re trained, each one a fool. Empty-headed, goal-less thugs, they prowl the streets, malls, for new drugs; Now they’re on this train for sure, headed straight for “Air-head Pure.” No matter that they rob and kill to get a fix, another thrill; No matter that their victims die most brutally, to their last sigh. The judge on board, he’s lenient; He treats their crimes like unpaid rent; Society, he says, must pay, for these poor youth it cast away. “They’re victims! Not all those they shot; Their big mistake was to get caught; This court awards them to the street [that butcher shop that makes ground meat!]. “ He lets them know this way they’re free to strike again--most certainly! Whene’er they’re hauled before his bench, it won’t be such a nasty wrench. They’ll know they’ve got a big heart here who lets them off without a tear; No matter what they’ve done again, the game goes on, plug in, my friend! How this train does roll along! It’s no use to cry over wrong; So times are bad and won’t reset, Oh, well, who cares? Why stew and fret? You’ve got your fare paid to the end, the train will crush what it can’t mend; Officials and the candidate boarded last --almost too late; Bands, balloons, and speeches made, his campaign surely earned high grade! Promise good times are ahead, pull some young thing into bed; Pay her off if there’s a squawk; Party faithful? Take a walk. The train rolls on no matter what, the bridge is out, the trestle shut; The party still goes on full blast, no matter that it cannot last. Each passenger rides thoughtlessly-- “Why worry ‘bout what I can’t see? Sex and drugs and party deals-- they’re thirty-weight to grease our wheels! “Don’t ever tell us right from wrong, or sing that old James Lowell song -- We live our life in our own way, yeah, who are you, sir, to gainsay? “Where this train goes is our own choice, [a trip to Hell in a Rolls Royce?]”; Do you think they listened back when Noah cried, ‘Alack! Alack!’? They had their train, he had his boat, the problem was theirs couldn’t float; “Repent!” he said, “or you will drown; A Flood will cover up the town!” “They partied then, we party now; Is that your problem? I don’t see how; his is OUR train, don’t you forget, we’re going all the way, you bet!” So onward rolled the Gravy Train, playing smooth jazz (what, no Cobain?); In diamonds and designer jeans, they dined on lo-cal French cuisine. This cool and glitzy, done-all crowd grew bold and brash and ever loud until a silence stunned the ear as rolling wheels met thin, thin air.... At Dead Man’s Gulch the train stopped short; The Good Times? All abort; Tumbling, screaming stream of woe, landing, smashing far below. There goes Beefcake down the river, he don’t move and he don’t shiver; The rest are piled upon on the bank, except for coaches that just sank. Strange enough, thepeople cried the very Name they once denied; “Christ!” wept a leading prize fighter, the same man known as cad and raper. “Jesus!” moaned the candidate. “I’ve got business that can’t wait!” and roar; His campaign’s clearly over now, forgotten now, blood is bubbling down his brow. “Pardon me, O God, my sin!” pled the unjust judge within a shattered skull as brains ebbed out, his money scattered all about. “I printed slush, I purveyed mush!” someone confessed in the hush of bodies laid in long, white rows-- those who shuddered with death throes. “I cheated on my husband, Dave; He never knew, O God, please save--” And then the woman died, both legs cut off, laid by her side. “I blasphemed You, dear Jesus, Lord!” cried a lawyer beneath Death’s sword; His testimony came too late as devils dragged him through Hell’s gate. Psychic, Larry Rainbow hissed the Savior’s Name he widely missed; His horoscope read “Take a trip” and so he made his final slip. His gang friends offed, a kid said, “Who can find my arm--can you?” “No-ooo...” the beauty queen told him, her crown now lost to eyes grown dim. Tribal councilman no more, an old man turned from out-worn lore; “Dear Lord Jesus, this is me!” he cried for help belatedly. A local mayor, he too was hurt, his best-laid plans all lay inert; “What matters now is...” all he said, then medics covered up his head. A young man and his wife and child lay thrown amidst a tangle wild; he wondered how his theater would fare without him manager. A renowned bishop, firm Pro-Choiced, heard the cries of those unvoiced; “You killed us, thirty million strong, then preached on civil right and wrong!” A warlock sweating sure, sharp fate now thought of all the things he ate in rituals his circle staged with children kidnapped and then caged. A teacher in the public schools now said, “God, we acted fools!” Too late she turned a penitent, the Class of ‘96--hell-bent! A master contractor of fame, Curt built great mansions for sheer gain; Now they’ve crumbled in his view, his prospects void, to start anew. He thought of housing for the poor he could have built--but no more; Instead he catered to the rich, and now his dreams lay in the ditch. A pro athlete figured his score: “Zilch, I guess, I’m out the door!” No more babes and drugs and stash, no more chance, it all went smash. He lay a rag doll, paralyzed, it hit so quick he was surprised; There was no time to use his legs, and now they’re stiff like wooden pegs. A hustler on the SeaTac scene, Krysti saw her life obscene, how she threw away all good for nothing really--just: she could. A producer of filth and trash, awarded Golden Globes like hash, rolled in his own body waste, clever brains now pressed to paste. Talk show hosts, too, got their due as lives then flickered in review; Sighs, and sighs, and still more sighs over fortunes built on lies. “Help me, Lord!” was Oprah’s plea, so strange to hear from one like she; a thousand shows, and not one true, her day of birth she now could rue. The businessman who paid slave wage, then bought a yacht, the latest rage, he hasn’t saved, not one red cent--his wealth was stolen and misspent. CEO of a mall chain, Stan lay in blood, all filled with pain; The high price of pain-killer brands? Like life, it’s now torn from his hands. Trainmen, too, who worked the line found it hard to Death resign. “Why me, Lord?” asked one of those. “My record’s pretty as a rose; Always did my job, then some; St. Peter, why’s your face so glum? I paid my bills and union dues, I own my home and don’t drink booze; Anger, yes, I have done that, but nothing worse than kick a cat! Some cussing too turned the air blue when things refused to go just right--I couldn’t help but get uptight. Just little things like that, O God; I surely don’t deserve thy rod! So why am I now sinking down? I feel fear and hear a sound of cackling laughter, a voice obscene: “Gotcha! Gotcha!” cries a fiend. And at the same time he crossed the bar, another soul dropped just as far; He lived his life as he had sung, and now the noose on him was hung. His cooling tank is dark and cold; A one-inch cube will both enfold a sinner’s soul, and swarms demonic--Hell’s greeting corps and Philharmonic. Heavy metal’s not as loud as racket from this attack squad; They jeer, they sting, and celebrate the day he swallowed up their bait. The Word of God--he never read; And as for what Bill Graham said he thought, “You’re wrong, we live, then die, then we go poof with our last sigh.” “I did it my way,” moaned the lush as devils gave him one big push that sent him down to a cold tank, for which he had himself to thank. And what about the billionaire who built a palace for his lair? He lay now on a muddy plot, a few square feet on which to rot. He called on God--it’s true, he did, then waited for a lower bid; When one was offered for his soul, he grabbed and fell down a deep Hole. His banker? Oh, a broken neck! His life was like a returned check that came back with a stiff bank charge--could he pay it and discharge both debt and fee accrued to him, this soul bankrupt because of sin? (No, his debt’s too big for human good to ever pay all that he should; Only Christ’s blood sacrifice will ever pay it and suffice; Except Christ pay up your account, there are no funds that can amount to what a soul owes from the day when each of us fell in sin’s sway.) And thus his soul was foreclosed on, and he was thrown in debtor’s prison; And he could see there was no door; Whoe’er came in would leave no more! Agnostics, atheists not few cried out “Jesus, please forgive me too!” Just as hospice doctors say, no other name was prayed that day. II What a contrast, back to back, with the train of narrow track! Travolta, Van Damme, Stallone--no sign! Real men are Christ’s own kind. (Refrain) This train! O this train! E. V. Hill and Bible totin’! This train! O this train! The Lord’s own prayer and gospel singin’! This train! O this train! Sheer happiness, and gets you there! This train! O this train! Climb aboard, Child, with free fare. Magic Johnson’s got a berth, ever since his second birth; Remember Mickey Mantle who died sick? He’s arm in arm with mighty Chick. Little Richard, up from Macon, has a Reason for his jivin’. Bob Dylan weeps and sings a song, proclaiming Christ who rights all wrong. Mahalia, she rocks the train with a celebrating strain: “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound!...” is her song heard all around. Dale Evans, Roy and Trigger--they look super, and somehow bigger. “Happy Trails” rings out too, all its promises come true. Great Pascal, Newton, Wilde--each board humble as a child; This Kingdom train rejects proud man, each passenger is born again. And children! All the children lost by choice at cruel cost-- they’re safe aboard this glad express that runs on Jesus’ faithfulness. And martyred millions tyrants killed-- their graves unmarked in death pits filled-- all these sheep who bore Christ’s Name wear the crown, Undying Fame. Wiping tears from their dear faces, Mother Teresa, ever full of graces. Billy Graham and wife, Ruth, still are sharing Gospel Truth. Efrem Zimbalist reads the Word, majestic is the tone that’s heard, where Moses watched with skipping heart the great Red Sea split wide part (no marsh of reeds, a real sea divided by the Almighty!). Now likewise there’s Vict’ry too: Jerusalem shines in full view. Aren’t you glad you chose to ride the train that runs from Jesus’ side? Across the chasm sin has stretched, the Glory Train is safely fetched! The Good Shepherd’s star-hook had reached out, as in vaudeville, and pulled them off a stage and a gameboard that was rapidly rolling up and being crated for storage. Seeing the two trains and their passengers, the ACs realized they were being confronted with a Choice. This was Natal Convergence for the White Martyrs of the last ARGO, and they were not only witnessing death and birth, they were being asked to choose which they wanted, and that was the meaning of the two trains--CHOICE on a billion wheels, each train starting out at the same station but turning a totally different direction, with a totally different destinations. Having never seen trains except in old Earth archives, they were overwhelmed by the reality, which filled every wide screen aboard the ARGO. White Martyr Argonauts, with humanist-mechanist names like Russ, Ecmin, Sytan, Thar, Mortran, Vu Mysh, Hanz, Zyleena--or, in another, religious series, named with Earth-friendly terms, such as Fire, Leaf, Cloud, Stone, Wind, Daye, Light, Brooke--crowded to every available screen. But the old categories of AC-hood no longer held good--they had been superseded by the Magnum Mysterium introduced to them by Ira Sulkowsky. Once launched into its deeps, there was no going back to the old bifocalism of divided, balanced philosophies. That was philosophy, and it worked only to a certain point, and then left them. This, however, was Reality that Sytan and Leaf and Hanza and Cloud couldn’t deny. Would they choose Birth and Rebirth, or Death and a Second Death? It was up to them, individually. Gabriel Tall Chief, then Horace his cousin, and half-crazy Ira Sulkowsky in his ratty trailer on the Rosebud plains, not to mention countless players in Dr. Pikkard’s Wargame from Wally to the DUBESOR--all these were present, and they were asking the Lost Tribe, “What are you still searching for? Here it is! Here it is! We tried to show it to you, and don’t you see it? Don’t you see it?, brothers and sisters?” For some even now aboard the ARGO, it has to be said that they couldn’t see anything. The “Christmas Factor” hadn’t connected, just as rolling stock can connect and form a train that can take the rails. These still continued to roll down their individual tracks, out of control on a steep and slippery grade that would soon send them hurtling off into some chasm of a river. This was the End for some, the Beginning for others. It was either Fatal or Natal, but it was Convergence, and everything depended on individual choice. This Tree in the Garden, or that Tree. The choice would make all the difference, both in the beginning and now at the end. The Chronicles of Gabriel Tall Chief and Horace Brave Scout are ended. Blessed be the Lord God, the God of Israel, Who does wondrous things! And blessed be His glorious name forever! And let the whole earth be filled with His glory. Psalm 72: 18-19 ___________________ A paid advertisement; Lyrics Copyright (c) 1996, Ronald D. 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