Dear cross, I too, with tangled view

would bow before the beams which held

the body of our mutual lord and king.

–

The every lash, of my tongue’s cash

of caramelized iniquity

I come in anxious sorrowful to bring

–

Whole storms of lust, at every thrust

that felled my heart’s façade of good

and ‘round my neck had placed a slaver’s ring,

–

while beamed my heart, with painted art

secure in self-made righteousness

a burbling clot of selfishness: my spring.

–

Here, Lord, I’d give the life I lived

to my own praise before the day

You made my dark and doubtness all take wing

–

and banished death, with Your own breath

that wrote “It’s finished” on the door

with blood from lambs Your very hands did fling.

–

Dear cross, I too, with clearer view

know beams of wood will never bear

the praise belonging to my Lord and King.