I stagger into battle,
holding my wounds before me
like coins in a plastic cup:
Pity me, please; have pity --
Haven't I already been hurt enough? --
And still,
despite the fear and ache,
there is that forward thrust;
a lost benevolence,
a gap, that like a hole in the dike
allows the self-fed venom to pour through.
When will we learn to hold our wounds
as invitations rather than as shields?
Forgive us, Lord, for ever thinking
these tiny scratches could ever match
your pain upon the cross.
* * *
No comments:
Post a Comment