When I was going through my purses yesterday I had to sort through a lot of junk I had never taken out of them. (It was like a little micro-cosm of my grander purpose.) There were lots of old papers, receipts, notes to myself, shopping lists, lip gloss, pens, pencils, and even a spoon. (Yeah... I don't know either.) I also found my earrings from my wedding day, my ICS office key, and an old journal from when I was on a women's retreat with my old church. In the journal, I found a poem I had written, inspired by a statue of Jesus the retreat grounds had. Here it is, in its unrevised state.
A Violent Love
Christ the Lord lifts up His face
Father, Father, why dost thou forsake?
No sin have I committed
Yet You have permitted
my pierced flesh, my bloody brow,
this circle of thorns to make my crown.
Satan scoffs, the crowd mocks.
And as I reach my final hour
the cup of judgment begins to pour.
Bitter, shameful agony, but oh, my sheep!
This is the extent I love thee.
Your sins are written above my head.
You were doomed without my blood.
Lord, is Thy wrath now satisfied?
My work here is done.
I raise My hands to You, My Father.
Make My enemies a footstool for My feet.
Redeem Your loved ones, their sins
with My wounds wipe clean.
Into Your hands My spirit
I commit. Death cannot hold Me,
its power is forfeit. Place the iron
scepter in My nail-scarred hand.
(It is finished.)
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