Monday, June 25, 2012

The Widow's Mite

It seems incredible.
Thorns and nails pierced You through,
The black earth gulped Your blood, and I,
What have I done for You?

Scattered words and hesitation
To stanch Your blood and pain:
Hopeless offering, and I hope
Your bloody, precious crown to gain?

The nails you grant him wear
The self-sainted hypocrite scorns.
Headache and the taste of failure
Lord, my nails, my thorns.

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