Naked eyesores, groping in darkness
unsure whether we want to be undone
again.
Whimsical whirling in our loneliness
and laces of wine-skins weakening
leave us to wonder if we really asked for all this
as our narrative.
Redemption.
A really nice notion to ponder unless
you are the yonder years of another's
poverty. Really, they were just fighting gravity
and so grew your depravity too.
Too long had you wasted all the lowliness
and bowed to unholiness.
Stop.
There is something sweeter.
Spices trickling down a fresh bloom of Rose.
Pricking the thorn, you thought this space to be only
for a race far from you.
Then he comes.
The one you awaited, though his witness be
a woman whose moan of intercession would be
way to whack, even for apostles.
Who would have thought the rolling of, what
must seem a grain of sand to Him,
moved mountains for those whose fear is clean?
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