Sonnet VIII

I did not know that perfect love was mine, 

wrapped up in swaddling clothes before my birth

and opened there upon the cross—the sign

that grants my meager soul its worth. 

More thrilling than an ice-cold breeze on hot

and humid days, the moment when I knew 

that I had been the object of His thought,

the unlikely subject of His devoted view.

And now I walk with Him in a clean, white gown

I can’t afford, held eternally 

in sinless hands that brought love freely down, 

the hands that took God’s wrath for me. 

My heart could soar like eagles through the skies

at history’s most beautiful surprise.

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