I am the Cross that he carried, I weighed him down, saying, I have sinned, and will sin, I will be saved and I will sin. So I pressed him down. I am the wood that abrased him, bruised him and cut him, hard, square and splintered, rubbing against him, inert, clumsy burden wherever I touched him I opened his sores. I am the wood he was pinned to. He willed himself on, smashing against me and would not tear down his Omnipotent palm; though I held the bonds, he would not step down. I am the cross that he died on. Like the bitten apple which could not grow again, each grain felt him dying, none could respond. From the soft body, blood running cool. While he prayed and thirsted Godhead condescended to union with the helpless inanimate in death. When the pulsing ended we were one. As the Cross I tell you: come within this Presence, only under outstretched arms catch one drop of life-spent blood, – you can kill him – he will save you. (1960s) Comments are closed.
|
Poems by Janet
|
von Gumppenberg |
|
|