Dear Cross

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.

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