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.