Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Dawn-child
dreaming,
the sun-beams, falling,
lay out your way

first-born,
yet unborn,
you to whom we would
gift the world,
instead, stand to
inherit naught
but your father’s
sin

one day,
as Jacob before you,
may you find in yourself
faith enough
to seize your iron
breasted fortune
and make of
it an alter,
in the desert,
bowed down,
before the Lord